


Blood From Stone

by Chamelaucium



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Assassins, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Inspired by Assassin's Creed, Lots of Angst, M/M, More tags to be added I'm sure, Multi, Slow Burn, Thorin is emotionally constipated, Unresolved Sexual Tension, bad and sad things happen, bilbo takes none of his crap, girl!Fili, kid!Kíli
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 16:27:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 216,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9450260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chamelaucium/pseuds/Chamelaucium
Summary: The city of Arda is under the rule of the Knight Templar Smaug, but in the shadows hide two factions who just might be able to bring him down:Thorin Oakenshield, Master Assassin of the Sons of Durin, has lived his life haunted by the shadow of his family’s secret and the price on his head.Bilbo Baggins, head of the Children of Yavanna, has his own reasons for wanting Smaug dead.The two factions have been been rivals for years, but it is only united that they might stand a chance of freeing Arda - and themselves - from Smaug’s tyranny. The fates of the city and their Orders lie in their hands… just a shame they can’t seem to spend five minutes in each other’s company without blades being drawn.





	1. From Endings a Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, Chapter 1 of Blood From Stone! This fic has been a _long_ time in the writing, but I'm finally pleased enough with it to post!
> 
> There are maps available over on my [tumblr](http://bespectacled-hobbits.tumblr.com/), if you'd like a visual aid (yes, I'm that sad I made maps. I like maps.)
> 
> Enjoy!

**_Part 1: Roots_ **

**Chapter I**

Becoming invisible was easy, Thorin had found. Shedding one’s skin like water from a seal’s back, it was about becoming just another face – uninteresting; un-intriguing; nothing special. People’s gaze passed right over him nowadays, when he wanted it to – should he choose it, they would all cower in fear if he revealed himself.

But not today. Today was about hiding in plain sight, becoming one with the people around him so that nothing would raise suspicion. It raised his hackles that he was using his skills, learned the hard way, for such a mission as this.

Balin had pulled him into his office, ignoring the fact that Thorin was the Head of their Order, and shoved a thick book under his nose, the pages full of black ink markings which Thorin saw were neat columns of numbers, carefully scratched onto the parchment in Balin’s printed script.

“We’ve no money,” Balin had informed him, saving Thorin from having to look too closely. “You’re going to have to consider those proposals.” Thorin grit his teeth. There had been various petitions from members of Arda’s high-ranking society for their services – all petty, minor jobs, more suited to cut-throats and mercenaries, not the most renowned Assassin’s Order in Arda. The fact that they too cut throats and their services could be bought was irrelevant.

“We are the Sons of Durin,” he said carefully, smoothing down his cloak. “It is our priority to rid Arda of this worm Smaug, not play to the whims of cuckolded spouses–”

“Yes, we are the Sons of Durin,” Balin cut him off bitingly and slammed the accounts book back on the desk. “And yes, Smaug is our priority. But Thorin, our allies grow fewer every day and we lack the means to buy them back. Have you forgotten that at the last meet you called, all of thirteen of us showed up?”

Thorin had closed his eyes against the harsh truth of Balin’s words. “Where has the money gone?” he’d asked hoarsely and Balin had given a little hum.

“Into some Templar’s pockets, no doubt,” he replied. “It was given out in bribes to people who have since abandoned us.”

Thorin’s nostrils flared and he curbed the anger he felt building up in his veins. “Then get me Dwalin. He and I have work to do.” He’d turned and stalked to his own office in their underground sanctuary, glaring at the papers and offers of payment that had come in and he now had to accept.

And so he found himself lurking – invisibly, of course – in an alley behind a noble lady’s mansion, hidden in the shadow as he waited for her lover to leave, sneaking through the servant quarters. Thorin had followed him here a few times and watched, noting his movements and timings so that the perfect opportunity could arise. He was to teach him a lesson, nothing more; offer a warning that the man’s wife knew of his infidelity. This wasn’t the first cheating husband – or wife – he’d outed and wouldn’t be the last, judging by the state of their accounts. He’d have many more petty errands to run before they had even a shade of the wealth they’d had before.

He saw a curtain twitch in what he knew to be the lady’s bedchamber and he readied himself, knowing it would be a few minutes at most before the man came scurrying out of the house like a rat. His lip curled as he thought of it. He inched closer, remaining hidden in the shadows until he knew the man’s path would pass him. Sure enough, two minutes later the servants’ door opened and the man hurried out, his face hidden by the large cowl of his deceivingly plain woollen cloak. Thorin tensed as he came closer, closer–

Suddenly a hand grabbed his arm and he whirled around, knives out and ready but they slashed only at thin air, while the hand rested heavily on his shoulder. He froze as he breathed heavily, trying to work out how best to free himself.

“Now now, is that any way to greet an old friend, Thorin Oakenshield?” an amused voice said from behind him and Thorin relaxed infinitesimally as he recognised it. Angrily he sheathed his knives again and brushed the now-unresisting hand off his shoulder.

“Gandalf,” he said shortly. “What a pleasant surprise. Forgive my greeting; I’m not much used to being assaulted by...old friends.” Gandalf merely smirked at his sarcasm.

“Come now, it’s not all bad. You might not have agreed to see me otherwise, and I have matters I wish to discuss with you.” Gandalf always had the way of a kindly old grandfather, which both annoyed and reassured Thorin, depending on his mood. Right now it was irritating.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I was in the middle of an assignment, and now my mark and any chance of payment has gone, thanks to _you,”_ he retorted angrily and was about to storm off when Gandalf’s large hand appeared on his shoulder again and started drawing him off to one side.

“Perhaps, but the matters I have to discuss with you could potentially make up for the loss of one client,” he said. “In fact, I do believe you have a personal history which would make your listening...worthwhile.” He gave Thorin a look, and Thorin scowled.

“Where are you taking me?” he demanded, again shrugging off Gandalf’s hand and following him of his own accord. He was no child to be led around by the hand. The streets were getting busier now as Gandalf took them from the back alleys to the main streets, and Thorin made certain to slip his skin again, to become unimportant and uninteresting and unmemorable. He knew the streets of the city better than anyone, and could have said exactly where they were, but he wished to gauge Gandalf’s intentions.

“I wish only to take an old friend for a meal and discuss business plans,” he said cheerfully, and Thorin snorted. Eventually they reached _The Prancing Pony,_ a little inn already brimming with people, and Gandalf led him inside. It was warm and noisy and the smell of roasting meat and fresh bread and ale was pleasant as Gandalf settled them towards the back of the inn, in a booth of worn leather cushions.

Gandalf ordered two ales and plates of the roast and then turned to look searchingly at Thorin. “You say your finances are low?”

Actually, he’d never said anything of the sort, but Gandalf seemed always to know more than he should. Thorin sighed.

“Yes, which is why you found me waiting to punch up an unfaithful husband.” He snorted. “Hardly my most memorable feat.”

Gandalf gave a smile. “Indeed. What I have to propose would most certainly be memorable and, if successful, is likely to go down in history books. Of course, you’d also get no small amount of... _personal_ satisfaction from it, I’ve no doubt.”

Thorin didn’t trust the man’s smile. Gandalf was wily and cunning and always a step ahead of everyone else, so much so that he’d been nicknamed the Wizard by most in the underworld; while he was an ally to the Assassin Guilds, it was well known he had shadier dealings too. Although if one thought about it, there wasn’t anything much shadier than an assassin, who was by his very nature _shady._

But that grin and the twinkle of the grey-clad man’s eyes were unashamedly knowing and despite himself, Thorin was intrigued. “Go on,” he said, knowing he was playing right into Gandalf’s hands.

“I know how you can bring down Smaug.”

Thorin sat silently for a moment while he digested that, grateful for the all-encompassing noise which hid Gandalf’s words from those nearby.

“ _What?”_ he finally asked, his food forgotten on the table in front of him. “Bring down _Smaug? How?”_ It was what Thorin had been trying to work out how to do for years, but always they were lacking in something – money, assassins, often both. The Sons hadn’t been the same since Thorin’s father’s death at the hands of the Templar, Smaug. Well, his lackey Azog; but Smaug had been behind it all.

Gandalf gave another knowing smile. “It will be difficult, and require something which depends upon you to acquire, but I believe that it can succeed. Thorin Oakenshield, how far are you willing to go to get revenge?”

He thought of his father; of Frerin; of his sister cowering in the shadows of their burnt-out house. Of the empty casket where once the pride of their House had sat. “However far I need to,” he said, only a flicker of emotion seeping into his words. But it was enough for Gandalf, who raised an eyebrow.

“You need to work with the Children,” was all he said, and Thorin stood suddenly, the table wobbling dangerously as he pushed himself up.

“Those herb-munching lackwits?” he said angrily. “Why on earth would I ally myself with them?”

“Because they are what you _need_ ,” Gandalf retorted, just as angrily, and Thorin sank back down to his seat. “They are far from lack-witted, Thorin Oakenshield, and indeed I might reserve that name for you if you continue to behave so! The Children are rich, you are not; their numbers are plentiful, yours dwindle by the day; they have access to resources you can only dream of at present.” Gandalf’s voice was a furious near-whisper but Thorin refused to back down.

“We do not need them!” he protested, but Gandalf cut him off.

“Have you ever seen someone die of one of the Children’s poisoned darts?” he asked, his voice suddenly calm. Thorin shook his head. “That’s because the Children are so silent and subtle that their victims appear simply to die of a heart attack, or other such failures of vital organs. Simple, and _secret.”_ He looked at Thorin pointedly. “ _That_ is why you need them, Thorin.”

Thorin slumped in his chair.

“Fine,” he agreed sullenly. “I’ll meet with their leader, but I will not guarantee an agreement.”

Gandalf gave him a slap on the shoulder and handed him a piece of paper with his spidery scrawl on it. An address and a time. “Meet me there at that time in two days hence. Memorise where and burn the paper – we must be secretive, of all things,” Gandalf urged him. “Should an alliance between the Sons of Durin and the Children of Yavanna become common knowledge, all chance we have would be lost.”

Thorin merely nodded, staring again at the slip of parchment in his hand. “I will give them a chance, for my family’s sake, but do not expect me to pander to their whims.”

“I’m sure you’ll find the Children more than suitable,” Gandalf said sternly. “They are the very epitome of skill and secrecy, and their Leader in particular. I’ve known him since he was a lad.”

“Who?” Thorin asked suspiciously.

“Bilbo Baggins.” Gandalf grinned and stood. “When you meet him, try and not be yourself. That way he might agree to help you – even like you.”

And he was gone before Thorin could protest. Still seated in his booth in the Prancing Pony, Thorin stared at the piece of paper for a little longer until he knew it by heart, and set it carefully to the flame of the table candle. It curled and shrivelled and turned black until eventually it was merely a smattering of glowing ash and smoke; Thorin hoped that this time, their chance wouldn’t go the same way.

 

***  

 

“I’ve been practicing with your new darts, sir.”

The wooden dart was light, its balance perfect as he twirled it through his fingers. He smiled; of course the balance was perfect – he’d designed them himself. He ran a thumb along the sharp point, resting the pad of it against the very end and feeling the sharpness without pricking himself. While not a fatal mistake for him to make, it would be a silly one.

He flicked it to the young woman in front of him, who caught it deftly despite the brisk breeze and grinned. “Well then, Lobelia, let’s see what you can do.”

Lobelia span around, her curls flipping and nearly whipping him but for his quick reflexes, and suddenly the straw dummy a good twenty yards away was peppered with darts at all the main veins and arteries – two on the neck, one in the soft skin near the armpit, both wrists. She turned back to face him and gave a little bow, a small victorious grin on her face. He nodded thoughtfully and her face fell the tiniest amount before he gave a chuckle and clapped her on the back.

“That’s impressive, Lobelia,” he told her earnestly and she relaxed. “Don’t you worry, you’re well on your way to–”

“Bilbo Baggins,” a voice said behind him and he turned to meet the speaker, one eyebrow raised.

“It’s a wonder they let you in here. You’re not really dressed for company.”

“I never am,” the old man replied, and Bilbo could see the twinkle in his blue eyes before he grinned.

“Gandalf,” he chuckled and Gandalf laughed too, drawing him into a bone-cracking hug. “It’s been a while since you were here last.”

“I’ve had business to attend to,” Gandalf replied airily. “And I bring most important matters to discuss, too, m’boy.” Only Gandalf could ever still call him that, even after being Master Assassin of the Children of Yavanna for a good six years now. Bilbo looked at Lobelia and gestured inside, to the building built half underground and half above, with a turf roof.

“Bring some refreshments to my office, will you, Lobelia? Then go and join Otho with the poisons.” He gave her a quick look and she nodded before scurrying off to do as she was bid, and Bilbo turned back to Gandalf. “She’s one of our best recruits. I think the Children would be in safe hands if I left her in charge after I step down.”

“You’re stepping down?” They’d begun following Lobelia back inside but at a more sedate pace, but Gandalf stopped and gave Bilbo a hard, sharp look.

“No, no,” Bilbo reassured him. “Not for a little while yet, at least. But it’s never too soon to start thinking of these things, is it?”

Gandalf hummed and they made their way slowly back inside. The headquarters of the Children lay outside the city of Arda, amongst the rolling hills of the Shire which was separated from Arda by the Old Forest. The Children knew forest and city alike as well as they knew the backs of their own hands and it was a source of pride to them that they made their living – and profession – from the resources the land gave them. Every Child had grown up learning the poisons and their properties; that knowledge alone was dangerous, but the application of it was fatal for their victims.

Bilbo led Gandalf to his office, a roomy chamber with large windows which let in the light of the sun, slowly beginning to sink in the West. Lobelia had left a pot of tea and some cakes on the desk and Bilbo folded himself into his seat, a cup of tea clasped between his hands. Gandalf stood by the window, looking out.

“Well, Wizard,” Bilbo grinned up at him and Gandalf smiled too at the use of the moniker. “What’s your urgent matter we need to discuss?”

Gandalf clasped his hands behind his back and turned to face Bilbo; Bilbo had known the man long enough to be wary of that glint in his eye.

“I’ve got a proposition for you. It would be good for you, I don’t doubt, and most amusing for me.”

“What is it?” Bilbo asked carefully. Anything Gandalf found amusing was often best avoided.

“I’m sure you would like to see Arda rid of Smaug?” Gandalf asked. Bilbo nodded; Smaug had become more than just an inconvenience now and his network of guards and spies and informers was not only nearly as extensive as the Children’s own, but severely hindered their movements. Bilbo could only hope the Sons of Durin were as affected by it as them, if not more; there was no love lost between the two groups although no blood was ever spilt. Every member of their Order, be it Son or Child, had too much respect for the Code. “I have an idea.”

Bilbo leant back in his chair and sipped at his tea. “I’m listening.”

“Ally yourself with the Sons.”

Bilbo would have laughed, if he hadn’t been so busy choking.

 

***

 

Thorin was in a foul mood for the next two days, storming around in his swishing cloak and a black expression on his face. Balin couldn’t understand it – as he tried to tell Thorin, Gandalf was offering them a means of regaining their wealth, their prestige. Of getting revenge.

But Thorin wouldn’t be reconciled. “And we’ll owe it all to the Children,” he spat, staring into the flames of the fire in his hearth.

“Better to owe them and have what we’ve worked our lives away for than to live like this for the rest of our days,” Balin said quietly, and retreated. Thorin gnashed his teeth and pulled at his lip, thinking of all the Sons they’d lost – some to Mahal, some to prison, some to the deeper, well-lined pockets of one noble or other; all of them to Smaug. He had to get those back that he could, and avenge those who’d died.

If allying with the Children was truly the only way to do so, then he supposed he had no choice. And so, early on the appointed day, he took Dwalin with him to meet the mysterious Bilbo Baggins, head of their rival Order.

The morning was still dark when the two of them reached the appointed place. They were early, but Thorin had learnt from years of experience that it was better to be kept waiting than to be taken by surprise. He didn’t trust Gandalf as far as he could throw him – respect, yes; value, yes; but trust, never – and the Child even less, so it was only prudent to be waiting for them.

Gandalf had chosen a little alley in the Dale district; as the sun rose it turned the dirty white bricks of the buildings here a rosy pink, as if they were blushing. They themselves were ensconced in the shadow of an outhouse which allowed them a view of both entrances to the alley so they could see if anyone approached. Thorin had seen many a sunrise in his time, but never had he thought he’d see one while waiting to make an alliance with the Children of Yavanna.

Steadily the sun rose and shone brightly down on the houses, any illusionary beauty wiped away in the harsh truthfulness of the morning light. It showed every crack and crevice, every weed and missing brick. The city had never been allowed to go so far to rot before, but under Smaug, things like this were forgotten.

Around them the city started to come to life, but their alley remained deserted. Not a single soul was to be seen, despite the noise that could be heard from the other, busier streets. Thorin couldn’t complain yet, because it was still early; beside him, Dwalin seemed to have no such qualms and Thorin could hear him gritting his teeth. Eventually though the time Gandalf had given him came and went and still there was no sign of either of them; Thorin’s muscles were cramping by now and he slipped out from his spot irritably, stretching as he did so before starting to pace.

“They’re not here,” Dwalin grumbled. “I bet they’re not coming. I say we leave it and go.”

“I promised Gandalf I’d meet with him,” Thorin countered, although his temper was running very low indeed. “Why, though, I’ll never understand. The man’s hardly trustworthy and everyone knows the _Children_ are just – _ow,”_ he muttered, a funny pinching on the back of his neck distracting him. He reached a hand up to rub at it but froze when he felt the thin wooden shaft of a dart, yanking it out and staring at it in horror.

“Dwalin,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Get here, now.”

Dwalin looked at him, saw the wooden dart in his hand and cursed loudly as he joined Thorin, bracing himself so they stood back to back, Dwalin’s axe held aloft threateningly. Thorin could only think of one thing – they’d broken the _Code._ He’d been right all along, and the Children were just as much a threat to them as Smaug and he’d been a fool to believe otherwise.

There was a sudden rustle above them and both he and Dwalin looked up, only to see someone drop down from the rooftops. The figure landed neatly on the cobbled street, a large hood pulled over their head, keeping the face in shadow when they looked up. Thorin and Dwalin stood still, staring at the newcomer; suddenly they reached a hand up and pushed the hood back to reveal a surprisingly open face, eyes full of amusement as he took in the sight before him.

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service,” the newcomer said. “And I’ll thank you not to insult my order.”

Neither of the Sons said anything for a long moment as the three men measured each other up, until Dwalin suddenly broke the strange silence that had descended.

“You’ve poisoned him!” he growled, sticking an arm in front of Thorin protectively and making as if to rip the other man in half, which Thorin didn’t doubt he could (or would) do; all the same, he placed a soothing arm on Dwalin’s.

The Child snorted. “If I’d poisoned him, your leader would be long dead by now while you panicked like a headless chicken.” He smiled at the growl that elicited from Dwalin. “And come now, why would I poison my new allies? For I hear that’s what we’re to be, if Gandalf has his way.”

Thorin dropped the dart, green wood with the symbol of Yavanna’s fruit on the shaft – the trademark of death at the hands of the Children – and dropped it onto the ground, crushing it with his thick boots. It was extremely satisfying hearing the wood splinter to dust beneath his foot. “That was impressive,” he admitted sullenly. “We’d not have known you were there if you hadn’t thrown that dart.”

Bilbo only smirked again. “You wouldn’t have known I was here at all if I hadn’t chosen to reveal myself,” he replied coolly and Thorin quickly remembered what Gandalf had told him – _try not to be yourself..._ That was all well and good but despite all the time he spent in someone else’s skin, he couldn’t for the life of him work out how to slip his own at that moment.

The Child – Bilbo – had the white cloak and red sash of his order, with very little by way of armour – at least, that Thorin could see – but that was all typical of an assassin. He was more struck by the mop of bronze curls that fell about the man’s face and eyes surrounded by small laughter lines; the man looked more like an innkeeper than an assassin.

His gaze was icy when it turned to him and Thorin realised he’d spoken that last bit aloud. “I assure you, Master Oakenshield, I am a fully capable assassin. I don’t believe many innkeepers can do this.”

There was the hiss of metal on leather and a knife thudded into the wooden outhouse, passing so close to Thorin’s ear he felt the rush of wind flutter his hair; the next thing he knew there was another knife at his throat, the Child behind him holding it there while Dwalin gaped in surprise. Thorin could have thrown him off, he was sure; Dwalin too could have knocked him away but neither did anything, perhaps morbidly interested in what Bilbo would do now.

“I don’t take kindly to my order being insulted,” he said low into Thorin’s ear, breath tickling. Thorin could feel the sharp edge of the knife against his throat and said nothing. “Or myself. Now, you need us; we’re your last hope. I suggest you watch your tongue before I cut it out and find someone else to work with.”

“You wouldn’t,” Thorin said churlishly and the blade pressed closer against his neck for just a second before it was taken away altogether and the Child stepped away from him. Thorin massaged at his throat just a little, unused to the feel of a cold blade pressed against it. _He_ was usually the one doing the pressing.

“Perhaps not,” Bilbo agreed smoothly, his voice and eyes dangerous as Thorin turned to look at him. “But don’t think for one minute that I couldn’t.”

They glared at each other for a long moment, neither willing to be the first to break eye contact but a low warning growl from Dwalin brought them both back to the present, Bilbo turning to yank the knife out of the wooden shack as Thorin faced the figure that appeared at the end of the alley.

“Well now,” a cheerful voice sounded. “I see you’ve all met!”

“Gandalf,” Thorin muttered bitterly. “Where have you been? It’s late.”

Gandalf ignored the question. “I think it’s time we discussed this alliance, don’t you? Come now, I’ll buy you lunch.”

Thorin forced himself to remain calm and not to lose his temper, something which was particularly difficult when Bilbo flashed him a smug smile as he passed; a smile which promised everything and nothing, a smile which told him to be wary. Mahal, he _hated_ the Children.


	2. The Sons of Durin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two Orders discuss things, and Gandalf is...well, Gandalf.

**Chapter II**

“You need us. And believe it or not, the Children haven’t been unaffected by Smaug’s rise."

“We don’t need you,” Thorin denied staunchly. Bilbo smiled in amusement, the famous stubbornness of the Sons demonstrated before him. “We don’t need anyone but ourselves.”

“All thirteen of you?” Bilbo asked, raising an eyebrow at the man before him. “Last I heard, there weren’t even that many of you anymore. I heard they’ve got your inventor friend.” He saw a flash of recognition pass over Thorin's face before it was replaced by stubborn denial again.

“I don’t believe you. How can we trust anything you say? I don’t know your motives, any more than you know mine.”

“Oh, I think I know your motives well enough, Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo smiled again, cocking his head to one side as he regarded Thorin. “Your story is well known, even by the Children; everyone in Arda knows you wish to get revenge for your family.” Thorin’s face didn’t change, but Bilbo thought he saw something flicker in his eyes. Those eyes, such a cold blue, seemed almost like chips of ice at his words. “But I think there’s more to it than that.”

Thorin glared at him. “And you would know?”

“I can presume to guess,” Bilbo said. “You’re not as cold as you think you are.”

“You know nothing about me,” Thorin said and his voice was as cold as ice, much to Bilbo’s amusement.

Next to Thorin, Dwalin gave a low growl. “And what are your motives, Child? If not revenge, then what? Money?” He was glaring at Bilbo and if looks could kill, Bilbo had no doubt that he’d be very, very dead by now. “Maybe you’re looking to get rid of the competition.”

Bilbo said nothing, merely gave him a long look. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t do much to deter the large, tattooed Son before him; Bilbo had been told on more than one occasion that his looks rather mitigated any authority he might have commanded with his role as a Child. But it hadn’t stopped him reaching the position of Master Assassin, so he let his skills do the talking.

“You know,” he said lightly, “everyone is always so concerned about protecting their own backs that they quite forget about what’s down here.” Dwalin’s eyes widened as he felt the cold of Bilbo’s blade against the inside of his leg beneath the table; a benefit of the loose robes Bilbo wore and quick reflexes. “One cut here and you’ll bleed to death in minutes.”

Beside him Gandalf gave a small chuckle. The man had been surprisingly quiet throughout the entire discussion, seemingly enjoying watching them fight it out between themselves. But now the rather literal blades had been drawn and he placed a placating hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “Now, my lad, let’s not kill them before they’ve even had a chance.”

Bilbo removed his dagger and sat back against the worn seat of the booth. “If I wanted to kill them, I’d not do it with a dagger in the middle of Hamfast’s tavern.” He shot both Sons a smile which didn’t reach his eyes and held far too much warning. “The Children have developed quite ingenious ways of killing people.”

“I’m sure you have,” Thorin replied icily.

“Many of which could prove useful to you, I’m sure,” Bilbo said, brushing a piece of lint from his cloak. He heard Thorin give a snort but decided to let it slide, enjoying himself far too much. He’d heard of the pride and stubbornness of the Sons, but it was something else entirely to witness their verbal constipation first-hand. Especially when they were asking for something only he could provide; it was too rare a situation to take lightly. “It’s no skin off my back if I get up and walk away now,” he continued. “The Children of Yavanna have the resources, the numbers, the finances to protect ourselves at the very least, so this conversation is entirely unnecessary for us. The same cannot be said for you, however.” He glanced up at them. Both Sons were scowling, black expressions of their faces.

“I don’t like it, Thorin,” Dwalin muttered in what was almost a growl. Bilbo wondered if he was related to a bear; his build and manner would suggest it. “Let the man and his lip go. We can manage.”

Thorin said nothing, only glaring into the tankard of ale Gandalf had bought them earlier.

“Thorin Oakenshield, if you leave this tavern without forming an alliance, you will be the most lack-witted fool I’ve ever had the misfortune to know,” Gandalf said, and Bilbo had known him long enough to be able to identify the anger in his voice. “If you wish to avenge them, this is the only way,” he said, much more softly, and Bilbo was almost alarmed by the sudden change that swept over Thorin’s features then.

His eyes were softer when he looked at Bilbo again, his expression hesitant, until he steeled himself. “Then I ask, not for myself, but for everyone Smaug has hurt with his rule. I ask that the Children ally themselves with us, and help us to bring Smaug down and undo the harm he has caused.”

Bilbo sat a little straighter and looked directly at the man before him. He regarded him closely for a minute: the stern, noble jaw; the dark hair and those eyes which spoke so clearly of what he tried to hide. And Bilbo smiled.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

 

***

 

Thorin hated begging. He hated to even ask for things from those who were not Sons or kin; he hated owing others. Asking Bilbo Baggins to help him felt like such a betrayal of his very nature that he felt sick even as he uttered the words, but he knew that it was the only way they had a hope of avenging his family and all those Sons who had been brought low or killed by Smaug.

If Bilbo had smirked or laughed, Thorin would have taken it back and walked out of there as fast as he could. But Bilbo didn’t. He smiled, and it was such an earnest smile that Thorin felt the beginning of something dangerous stirring in his chest. Hope. He couldn’t allow himself to hope, not yet; he didn’t know this Bilbo Baggins and there was always the chance that it was merely a ploy to put the Sons out of action once and for all, giving the Children free reign of Arda.

So instead he merely nodded and looked down at the table, following the grooves in the wood with his fingernail. Dwalin said nothing, which he was grateful for – he didn’t think he could have borne it if he’d protested. But instead he remained staunchly silent, only nodding shortly when Thorin looked at him for confirmation, while Bilbo continued to smile in that disarmingly charming way and Gandalf clapped his hands together shortly.

“Good! Well that’s something, isn’t it?” he said to no one in particular. “An alliance between the two greatest Assassin orders; if you manage this, you’ll be talked about for centuries.”

“And where is your part in all of this, Wizard?” Thorin asked, perhaps slightly more rudely than he meant to. “You say if _we_ manage it; what of yourself?”

Gandalf looked at him with those eyes that seemed to see so much more than they ever let on, the blue as hard as his own. “I will play my part, just as you will yours,” he said evenly. “Now, I believe it would be best if Bilbo stayed with you here in Arda–”

“What?” Gandalf was interrupted by both Bilbo and Thorin, one with horror and the other with vehemence in his voice.

“No, Gandalf, I have no wish to–” Bilbo started.

“Nonsense, my boy,” Gandalf cut him off. “It makes sense. This way you will be a point of contact for your Children and you will be able to play a greater role. There is no sense in you travelling; indeed, you’d only risk detection or worse.”

Thorin wanted to protest – he’d already wounded his pride in order to ask Bilbo to help, and now Gandalf wanted to add insult to the injury by making the Child a visible reminder of his debt? He opened his mouth as if to voice his protests but Gandalf stopped him with one sharp look.

“It’ll do you all some good, I’ve no doubt. You need to learn to work together, anyhow, and there’s nothing like living together to do the trick.” He turned to Bilbo. “You were so sure Lobelia was nearly ready; give her a chance and let her stand as Head in your stead. Don’t doubt her now.”

Bilbo glared and looked ready to be contrary, but after a long while of staring at Gandalf he deflated and gave a sigh. “Fine. But don’t you think I’m happy about this, not one bit.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Gandalf replied and Bilbo snorted. Thorin would have laughed, except it looked like he was now going to be stuck with Bilbo Baggins for a good long while. Judging by the glare the other man gave him, he wasn’t overjoyed either. “Now, Thorin, take Mr. Baggins here to meet the others. I’ll go separately and meet you there.” And with that he was up and hurrying out of the tavern in a flash of grey wool, and Bilbo, Thorin and Dwalin were left staring after him.

Thorin sighed. “Well then. You’d best follow us, and make sure you keep up.”

He stood up, Dwalin following suit, and Bilbo snorted again. “I assure you, I’m more than capable of that.”

“Good,” was all Thorin gave in reply, before he too slipped out of the tavern, Dwalin hot on his heels. Thorin half hoped Bilbo would fall behind and get lost.

 

***

 

Unfortunately – though perhaps it was rather fortunate after all – Bilbo was quick on his feet and had no trouble keeping up, despite his rather shorter stride. A group of the three of them was too large and would only attract attention, so Thorin took them via the underground tunnels. There was an old network of them running beneath Arda which had once been fully usable and even impressive in their architecture; now, much like the Sons, they were in a state of disrepair and some parts were dangerous, at risk of cave-ins and best avoided. The journey took longer, in the dark as it was due to the fact they couldn’t afford to light them when they were used but rarely; they travelled in silence for the most part too, broken only by the sound of pebbles skittering away from their boots and their heavy breathing as the path inclined upwards.

A couple of times Bilbo looked as if to speak or ask something but he never quite did. Eventually they saw a pinprick of light in the distance, a small orange glow, and Thorin’s steps quickened.

“What’s that?” Bilbo asked in a hushed whisper.

“Our safe-house,” Thorin replied shortly and led them the rest of the way to the door. Bilbo looked about uneasily at the murder holes in the walls, but he supposed it was only necessary to have some form of defence, should these tunnels be breached. He jumped when Thorin banged loudly on the door, three great booming pounds which echoed in the tunnel.

“Who’s there?” a voice called; a surprisingly young voice, Bilbo was perturbed to hear. He hoped the Sons of Durin hadn’t become so desperate to replace their rapidly dwindling numbers that they’d resorted to kidnapping. If that was the case, then they could forget any idea of an alliance between them. He’d have to ask Thorin about it later.

“Oakenshield,” Thorin replied, leaning close to the door. “With Fundinson and the green one.”

It took Bilbo a moment to realise Thorin was talking about him. “I am _not_ green!” he started to protest but at that moment the door began to swing open.

“You live in the countryside with the trees,” Dwalin said beside him as Bilbo watched the door open to reveal the room behind. “Makes you green to us, children of rock and stone as we are.”

Bilbo glanced at the large man beside him, who stared resolutely ahead. He had interesting ink on his neck and the forearms he wore bare; if Bilbo was correct he also had inks on his skull. It was fascinating. Bilbo looked back ahead too, sniffing. “Well, I suppose we call you lot the Locksmiths.”

Dwalin’s brow furrowed. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Bilbo smirked. “Maybe I’ll explain it to you one day.”

“Dwalin, Baggins, come on,” Thorin called them over. “Gandalf’s already here.”

Bilbo hurried forward, Dwalin bringing up the rear, and when they were all safely through the door it slammed shut behind them and they heard the heavy clunking of the bar coming down across it. Bilbo turned to see who was manning the door and his stomach lurched when he saw a boy, no older than eleven or twelve, with dark hair falling messily around his face with large brown eyes staring at Bilbo curiously. He was so young.

“Where’s Fíli?” Thorin asked the lad, who tore his gaze from Bilbo to Thorin.

“With Mother,” he replied. “They’re safe.”

“Good.” Thorin nodded, and turned to Bilbo and Dwalin. “Come. You’ve to meet the others, Bilbo.”

Bilbo scurried forward, following Thorin as he led them through another doorway. “Master Oakenshield, that boy. I do hope he’s not what I think he is.” He’d spoken about his ‘mother’, but who knew if that was his actual mother or merely a code name.

“And what do you think he is?” Thorin asked, shoulders hunching ever so slightly and Bilbo’s stomach clenched.

“Tell me you haven’t been kidnapping children to replace those members you’ve lost!” There was more fire than he’d realised in his voice and he hadn’t even noticed that he’d stopped and grabbed the sleeve of Thorin’s cloak. Thorin looked mildly surprised for a moment before he met Bilbo’s eye; Bilbo could feel the heavy gaze of the other two as he looked Thorin the eye.

“We are not yet so desperate and unscrupulous that we would break the very rules we seek to have upheld,” he said with a hard look. “Kíli has not been kidnapped, have no fear on his part.”

Bilbo nodded and stepped back, releasing Thorin’s cloak. The first rush of embarrassment was rising into his cheeks and he stood straighter, trying to ignore it. The lad Kíli glanced at Bilbo curiously, and suddenly Bilbo understood. Kíli’s profile was similar to Thorin’s, albeit on a smaller scale; he was his son, then. Bilbo felt doubly bad then. It was not known that Thorin Oakenshield had taken a wife, however, so either he had managed to keep her secret or Kíli – and presumably Fíli – were illegitimate.

Either way, he cleared his throat and looked at the floor for a moment, hesitating before meeting Thorin’s eye again.  “Right. Well. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed such things.”

“Pay it no mind,” Thorin replied as he turned and set off again. “Be glad I do not take offence as much as you did at our first meeting.”

There wasn’t much Bilbo could say to that, so he held his tongue. The rooms they went through were comfortably if sparsely furnished and the cold stone corridors were in need of a few tapestries to keep the chill away, but Bilbo was pleasantly surprised by the living conditions. It was far from the sun and there weren’t enough plants, but at least it wasn’t a hovel.

Eventually Bilbo heard voices and they came to a common room of sorts, with a desk in one corner and a semi-circle of chairs before the fireplace, which wasn’t currently lit. Bilbo saw Gandalf speaking quietly with another older man, this one’s hair mostly a snowy white with a matching beard. They both stopped when they heard them approaching and turned to face them, the Son looking at Bilbo with the same curiosity as the lad Kíli.

“Ah, here you are!” Gandalf said brightly. “Balin, this is Bilbo Baggins, Master Assassin of the Children of Yavanna,” he said, gesturing Bilbo closer. “Bilbo, Balin Fundinson of the Sons of Durin.”

“By my beard,” Balin breathed quietly. “So it’s true? You’ll help us?”

Bilbo smiled. “If I can.” It was enough and Balin gave him a smile from beneath his bushy white beard, his eyes crinkling up with happiness and no small amount of relief.

“So Thorin didn’t mess up?” he sounded almost surprised and Bilbo had to choke down the laughter that threatened to bubble up in his throat; it wouldn’t do to antagonise the other man further than was necessary, even if he did enjoy doing so.

“Obviously not,” he agreed and glanced behind him to see Thorin and Dwalin scowling, Kíli grinning from where he stood peering around Thorin.

“Then let me thank you now, Mr. Baggins, for everything,” Balin said, his eyes earnest and warm and Bilbo felt something stir in his chest. It was nice; Balin seemed to be the most diplomatic of them all but Bilbo didn’t doubt that he was perfectly sincere in his thanks and it was quite something, knowing that Bilbo and his Children had the power and ability to help the Sons. There had always been rivalry between them and Bilbo knew how much it must pain them to ask for help; he knew he’d be reluctant should their positions be reversed.

“Bilbo, please,” he said, taking the hand that Balin offered. “And the Children will do whatever we can.”

Balin smiled and Gandalf twinkled while Thorin glowered; it was amusing to see, if Bilbo was honest, especially as it appeared Balin was perfectly happy to ignore his Leader.

“Mr. Boggins,” a voice sounded and Bilbo turned to face it, seeing Kíli.

“It’s Baggins,” he corrected gently. Kíli flushed lightly but ploughed on determinedly.

“Do you use a bow and arrow? I’ve heard your Order uses them.”

“Some of us do,” he replied. “But there are different types – a crossbow or a longbow, for example. And some of us prefer...other long-range weapons. Do you use a bow?”

Kíli’s eyes brightened a little and he stepped closer to Bilbo, coming out entirely from behind Thorin’s cloak. “Yes, I–”

“You’re a Son of Durin, Kíli,” Thorin cut him off and Kíli seemed almost to deflate. “Not a Child of some flowery goddess that no one really knows about.”

There was silence in the room for a few long moments while everyone avoided meeting Bilbo’s gaze, but he was too busy staring at Thorin, two angry pink spots appearing high on his cheeks.

“I thought I asked you to stop insulting my Order,” he said in a low voice. Thorin met his gaze, looking at Bilbo stubbornly.

“Everyone thinks the Children are cowards,” Thorin shot back. “With your poisons and arrows and darts you can avoid fighting.”

“Everyone meaning all the Sons, or all of Arda?” Bilbo asked carefully. “It seems to me that most in Arda appreciate the way we work, which is more than can be said for you sorry lot.” Thorin’s scowl sharpened into anger and Bilbo saw him clench his fists, even as neither broke eye contact for even a millisecond. “Or have you forgotten why I’m here?” he asked, allowing a small smirk onto his face as he spoke.

Behind him Gandalf coughed but still neither looked away from the other until Thorin gave a low growl and stormed out of the room, muttering curses, and Bilbo watched him go with only a little annoyance still rankling.

“I’m sorry about him,” Balin said apologetically and Bilbo turned to face him, ignoring the knowing look Gandalf was giving him. “He doesn’t really think before he speaks sometimes.” Dwalin gave a snort, as if in agreement – although Bilbo wasn’t sure if it was with Balin or Thorin. Balin’s sharp gaze turned to Dwalin and he looked at him, an eyebrow raised. “Brother, perhaps you could go and encourage our leader to examine his choices and what he really wants.” Dwalin returned the long look before nodding shortly and sweeping out.

“You’re brothers?” Bilbo asked, surprised. Not that he should be, for most of the Children were related to one another somehow. His mother had always laughingly called it the family business.

“Yes. Most of us who remain are kin, in one way or another,” Balin sighed. “Most of them do not stay here, however. They have other jobs which allow us to operate, even if on a much smaller scale than we used to.”

Bilbo nodded. “Many of the Children prefer to remain in Arda after they’ve trained. Most of the taverns in Arda are affiliated with the Children and act as a base for us,” Bilbo smiled.

“You own the taverns?” a voice behind him said and he found Thorin re-entering the room, looking apologetic and intrigued.

“Yes,” Bilbo confirmed, straightening just a little as Thorin came closer to the three of them. Dwalin entered behind and whistled to Kíli, who gave one last longing look at Bilbo before turning and following Dwalin out.

“That could be useful indeed,” Thorin said and Bilbo only just refrained from rolling his eyes. “Show us.” He led them over to the desk in the corner and flattened a roll of parchment, revealing a map of the city and surrounding areas. Once it was fully flat, smooth marbled stone paperweights in the corners, Thorin glanced up at Bilbo. “Can you show us where your taverns are?”

Bilbo looked over the map and gestured to various points on the map. “We have many, but these are the main ones. There’s also a healer on the Apothecary Street in Greenwood who can provide me with the poisons the Children make, if I cannot get back to the Shire for a while.”

“You have friends in the Greenwood?” Thorin asked curiously, only interest in his eyes as he looked at Bilbo then. Bilbo smiled.

“I did him a favour a while back, and he was eager to help our cause. I have many friends you don’t know about.” He raised an eyebrow as he met Thorin’s gaze and to his surprise the Son looked down at the map again.

“That’s good to know. Our contacts remain mostly in Erebor, where it’s safest for us. We have Óin’s healing supplies, and he can be found in the market place. Bombur’s tavern here...” he pointed at the map and then looked up at Balin. “What of Pundurûn?”

Balin shook his head. “We’ve heard nothing from him since he was seen with one of Smaug’s lackeys.”

Thorin cursed quietly. “We’ll have to follow that up.” Suddenly he looked at Bilbo. “When you spoke of our inventor friend, what did you mean? What have you heard?”

“Only that there have been rumours that he’s been taken, but no one’s sure where. Most people think Gundabad, though.”

“Mahal help us,” Thorin murmured, so quietly Bilbo almost didn’t hear him. “It must be why Pundurûn left. He would not do so otherwise, I’m sure of it. They must have said something to him.” Balin nodded slowly, tugging on his beard. “We have to find out.”

“Has he been back to the Guild?” Balin asked. “If he’s being watched, he might not have returned, and I haven’t heard anything from his Thieves.”

Thorin studied the map intently, as if looking for something. “He wouldn’t want to draw attention to us, that much I know. He’s probably hiding in one of his bases, but which?” Thorin bit his lip for a moment.

Suddenly Gandalf spoke up from where he sat with a pipe by the empty fireplace; Bilbo had quite forgotten he was there.

“You remember the tavern I took you to before, Thorin?” he said, and Thorin nodded. “You might try there. Butterbur gets all sorts in his pub.” Thorin narrowed his eyes slightly at the old man but Gandalf just replied with a smile. “Have I ever given you cause to mistrust me?”

“I hope you don’t start now,” Thorin sighed. He looked to Bilbo, inclining his head slightly. “Master Baggins, Balin will show you where you’ll be staying–”

“I think Bilbo will be going with you, actually,” Gandalf interrupted, sounding far too amused with the entire situation. Both Bilbo and Thorin looked at him in surprise. “You might need him.”

“He’s helping us now,” Balin interjected. “We can’t keep him in the dark about this.” Thorin didn’t even look surprised anymore and just sighed as he stared at the map before looking at Bilbo and heading to the door.

“Then you’d best be ready to go,” he said as he passed and Bilbo grinned at Gandalf as he passed him, following Thorin. “I won’t wait for you.”

Bilbo scowled. In all the stories about his terrible past, about how noble he was, and how driven to get revenge, no one ever mentioned the simple fact that Thorin Oakenshield was a complete arsehole.

 

***

 

Thorin led them to the tunnels again, this time going a different way and ending up on the border of the Erebor and Greenwood districts. As they walked the underground tunnels, he filled Bilbo in. “Pundurûn is – was – our spy, and the head of the Thieves’ Guild that operates from Bombur’s tavern. But we’ve heard nothing from him in weeks, not since one of his Thieves saw him with a Templar, one of the ones deep in Smaug’s pockets, and came and told us.”

“And what’s he to do with your inventor?”

“Pundurûn’s name is Nori, and Ori is his brother.”

“Oh.”

“You see why it could be problematic.”

Bilbo stumbled on a bit of rubble lying in his path, which Thorin had skirted and _forgotten_ to warn him of, and he righted himself before answering. “So what do you intend to do if we do find him? If he is being watched we can hardly walk in and announce ourselves without bringing trouble to him or his brother.” Thorin was silent for a while as they continued down the tunnels, and Bilbo tripped again. “ _Yavanna,_ would it kill you to warn me next time there’s rocks in the way?”

“What? Oh. I’m sorry,” Thorin said, but he sounded thoughtful. Bilbo snorted. “ _If_ we find him, we’ll decide what to do then.” Thorin said nothing more, and Bilbo considered trying to start up another conversation but realised the attempt would be futile; Thorin was about as stubborn as the rock surrounding them and if he didn’t want to talk, he wouldn’t. If Bilbo had known how infuriating his new ally would be, he’d never have accepted Gandalf’s proposal. And either way, too much of his concentration was taken up navigating the rubble-strewn tunnels.

Finally they approached a door and they slipped out, coming out into a deserted back alleyway. It was eerily quiet in the street, although the sounds from around were loud enough, echoing strangely off the tall walls. Thorin motioned to Bilbo to follow and he did so, following at a large enough distance that they were not connected and would not raise suspicion. Bilbo had always had a knack for blending in, flitting between the groups of pedestrians on the streets and fading into the background. More than once he saw Thorin look around to make sure he was following and do a double-take when he couldn’t see him.

They approached an inn and Thorin stepped inside. Bilbo waited for a minute before slipping round the back, entering that way before sliding into the seat opposite Thorin.

“So you’re just going to ask Butterbur where Nori is?” Bilbo asked, keeping his voice low. The noise from the other patrons was loud but they could still be overheard by those nearby.

“Not in so many words, no,” Thorin said shortly. He looked up as a thick-bellied man with red cheeks approached their table.

“What’ll it be, lads?” he boomed cheerfully.

“Two ales,” Thorin replied. “I don’t suppose you’ve still been having trouble with thieves, have you?”

Bilbo watched the innkeeper carefully; his eyes widened in sudden recognition before he replied, with barely a hesitation.

“No, thankfully, though I hear the stakes are high on Market Street. Best avoid the place, if you ask me.”

“I’ll bear it in mind,” Thorin said and Butterbur nodded shortly before turning away to fetch their drinks. “There you have it,” he said to Bilbo, his low voice rough. “We’ll find him around Market Street, and I think I know where.”

“But even so, whoever’s watching him is working for Smaug and will probably know you. If you turn up, it won’t be good for Nori or Ori.”

Thorin glanced up as Butterbur placed two mugs of ale before them, then stared into its depths as if he could divine the answer from the cup. “Then you’ll have to go in my place. Nori won’t know you, but he’s quick…” He looked up then, looking Bilbo in the eye. “You’d best drink up then, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow before raising the mug to his lips and downing it as fast as he could, slamming it back onto the wooden table. Thorin said nothing, only did the same before getting up and looking down at Bilbo, who quickly followed suit. It was aggravating that even at his full height, he still had to tilt his head to look Thorin in the eye. “Lead the way, Master Oakenshield.”

Bilbo couldn’t tell if Thorin smiled at that, his beard covering his lips and making it impossible to really tell. It was probably just a trick of the light, in all honesty. But it seemed that Thorin’s face was less severe for just a moment before he left, tossing a few coins onto the table as he did so, Bilbo one step behind him. Bilbo couldn’t wait until _he_ was the one leading the Sons around; he hated following, especially someone as arrogant as Thorin.

He kept pace with the Son as they made their way to Market Street; Bilbo knew his way around the city just as well as Thorin did. The roads were busy, almost too busy; while it made it easier to blend in with those around him if it got much busier there’d be guards around soon, and the more people saw him the higher the chance someone might identify him. The Children were friends to most of the people in Arda, but Bilbo knew that counted for very little when one’s family was being threatened and the danger of torture was very real indeed.

He kept his head down and followed Thorin to a quieter back street, just away from the action and chaos of the market.

“What did Butterbur mean that the stakes were high?” he asked quietly when they regrouped. Thorin nodded to the clock tower.

“That Nori’s hidden himself up in a high place.” Bilbo gazed up at the tower, one of the tallest buildings in the district which could be seen from quite a distance. It was part of the merchants’ halls, the yellow stone building bright in the late afternoon sunshine; the wall of the gardens backing onto the tower. “If I know him at all he’s secreted himself right up at the top, where no one can get to him. Friend or foe.” Bilbo felt Thorin’s gaze on him and met it squarely, arching an eyebrow.

“You want me to get up there?”

“ _Can_ you get up there?”

“Just as well as you could. Everything you can do, the Children do as well if not better.”

“Except for sword-play,” Thorin pointed out. “I’ll warrant you hardly know how to use a sword.”

“I know enough to stick you with one if I had to,” Bilbo shot back. “It’s just an overgrown knife. And now is _really_ not the time for this conversation!” he sighed in exasperation as Thorin looked about to make some cutting remark about his lack of prowess with a sword, and the other man set his jaw firmly in annoyance. “Do you want me to speak to Nori or not?”

“Yes,” Thorin said mulishly, and Bilbo could see how much it pained him to be civil after being interrupted. He had to stop the smile that threatened to break out; he’d never thought he could enjoy himself by being an irritation to the leader of the Sons of Durin, but enjoying himself he was.

“Right then,” Bilbo said brightly. “I’ll meet you back here. Don’t get in anyone’s way.” And with that he was off, ignoring Thorin’s tight hiss of _‘Baggins!’_ in favour of hurrying towards the merchants’ hall and the clock tower. He’d have to scale the side, no doubt; he’d be seen if anyone chanced to look up but he’d found that people very rarely did. And he’d have no chance of getting inside at this hour without being stopped or recognised.

He stuck to the shadows as he got closer, waiting until there was no one close by before scrambling up onto the wall and into the garden on the other side. It was private and the chances of anyone using it were slim, and it would provide an easier route up to the clock tower than from the street. He landed on the grass with a soft thud, only realising then how much he missed the greenery of the Shire every time he came into the city.  His assumption proved correct, however, and there was no one about to see him land. He knew his luck might not last, however, so he moved over to where the clock tower backed onto the wall.

The stone was smooth, large blocks with very little by way of mortar and filling, which would have made Bilbo’s job a lot more difficult if it weren’t for the fact that the architecture in Erebor was not simply mostly made from stone, but always had carvings of some sort in the stonework, so there were in fact plenty of handholds for him to use to scale the tower.

Nevertheless it was still hard going and he moved slowly but deliberately, feeling out the hand and footholds before placing his full weight on it. Eventually he drew level with the small window on this side and it made him smirk; Thorin would never have fit through it. There were benefits to being small rather than the mountain of muscle Thorin was. Not that there was anything wrong with muscle, he had to admit, especially not when it was worn so carelessly _well_ –

He focused back on the job at hand and landed carefully on the stone steps inside the tower. He was close to the top, where Thorin assumed Nori would be, so he continued on up slowly. If he was in Nori’s position, he’d have set up some sort of warning system and so was unsurprised by the thin strip of wire he saw on the stairs and which he neatly stepped over. Honestly, if he hadn’t been looking for it he’d never have seen it.

Soundlessly he reached the top and stepped into the cavernous area, the light an almost greenish colour as it filtered through the glass of the clock. He saw a figure seated in a corner, his hair elaborately styled with braids that seemed to be falling out and he was furiously flicking a knife back and forth between his fingers; Bilbo assumed that this was Nori. He stepped further into the room and the figure froze for an instant before whirling to his feet, the knife previously in his hand now sailing through the air with deadly accuracy towards Bilbo. He ducked, only righting himself when he heard the clang of the knife hit the stone behind him and clatter harmlessly to the ground.

He held his hands out in a placating gesture before Nori could throw another knife at him.

“I heard from Butterbur that there’s trouble with thieves around here,” he said quickly, watching Nori closely. The second knife which had appeared in Nori’s hands stilled for a moment. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find them? My _Son_ heard they’d been captured.”

Nori’s eyes widened for just a moment before he looked at Bilbo with the same close regard as he was watching him.

“I’m sure I don’t know, but you should ask around,” Nori said and the knife disappeared up his sleeve; but he fiddled at his belt and another, more ornate knife appeared in his grip. “Now get away with you, before this ends up in your belly.” He nodded once at Bilbo who quickly retreated, the jewelled knife flying to where he’d been not a moment before. Quickly he scooped it up and left, hurrying back down the stairs and climbing again out of the window with the knife held firmly between his teeth.

As he landed again in the grass of the garden he heard a soft intake of breath and turned to find a woman, most likely a merchant’s wife, staring at him in shock. Quickly he removed the knife and swept her a bow, before scrambling away over the wall before she could call the guards or get too good a look at his face.

He blended with the crowd seamlessly again, the knife hidden well up his sleeve, and he found Thorin where he’d left him, jaw clenched and pacing with impatience.

“Finally,” Thorin said tightly when he saw Bilbo approach. “What did he say?”

“Gave me this,” Bilbo said, producing the jewelled blade from his sleeve. Thorin looked at it curiously. “Told me I should ask around.”

“That’s not Nori’s knife,” Thorin said, almost to himself, and Bilbo let him hold it, inspecting the jewels set at the hilt and the ornate carvings on the blade.

“I assume it belongs to whoever’s watching him,” Bilbo said. “Do you recognise it?” Thorin shook his head.

“No. But I think I know someone who will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pundurûn = cat-man, according to the Dwarrow Scholar! Thought it would fit Nori's sneaking around pretty perfectly :')
> 
> And now things are starting to happen! The chapters only get longer from here on in so I hope you're ready! ;) hope you enjoyed reading this one!!


	3. Winds of Change

**Chapter III**

Bilbo kept up a constant stream of questions as they walked, most of which Thorin ignored. Not only would it not have been prudent to answer them in public as they were, but it also gave him a petty sense of accomplishment to make the smaller man irritated, as he could tell Bilbo was getting ever more so by his evasive half-answers.

“Are you _always_ this grumpy?” Bilbo asked in exasperation. “It surely takes more concentration to keep that scowl in place than to _smile_ once in a while.” That just made Thorin scowl even more; he was _not_ grumpy, he just…wasn’t in the mood for Bilbo’s seemingly perpetual arrogant cheerfulness.

“Do you _always_ talk?” Thorin retorted and gave a satisfied little smirk to himself when Bilbo lapsed into a stubborn silence, his brow darkening in a glower as he glared daggers at Thorin. Thorin felt a little twinge, because the Children had no reason to help them and yet here Bilbo was… he pushed it aside in favour of relishing his small victory just a little longer. Guilt could wait. “We’re nearly there,” Thorin said reluctantly after a few minutes. “We’re going to see a contact of ours, one of our bases in the city. If anyone can help us find out who this knife belongs to, they can.”

Bilbo said nothing, merely straightened and continued glaring straight ahead. Thorin ignored him too and they continued to walk in silence, even if Thorin itched to say something. He snorted softly; for all that Baggins mocked the supposed stubbornness of the Sons, he had an obstinacy all his own that belied the soft features of his appearance, with his green eyes and honey curls which Thorin noted looked particularly soft in the afternoon light.

Irritably he shook himself and focused on staring straight ahead, quickening his pace minutely so that he pulled slightly ahead of Bilbo and could avoid looking at him. To his relief they were only a little way off and after rounding the corner into a large plaza, yellow stone buildings surrounding the square. One building took up one entire side of the square, built of rose coloured stone with an almost dusky pink hue, with trails of ivy climbing up around some of the windows; all however had the carvings on the wall which were so common among Ereborean buildings. He started to lead Bilbo to the large rosy building when he heard a quiet laugh from behind him. He turned and saw Bilbo was standing still, amusement in his eyes as he regarded the building towards which Thorin was headed.

“You’re joking, aren’t you?” he sounded as if all his Yules had come at once.

“What?” Thorin asked, his voice almost a growl.               

“Are we headed there?” Bilbo nodded towards the building they were indeed headed to. Thorin nodded and Bilbo scoffed.

“Just come on, Baggins,” Thorin said, not in the mood for whatever Bilbo was trying to say.

“You know, I didn’t think you were the sort to frequent these sorts of places,” Bilbo said, his voice loaded with amusement as they crossed the square and entered the Pink Sapphire, as the sign above the establishment’s door proclaimed its name was – the Pink Sapphire being one of the largest, most expensive and up-market brothels in all of Arda.

“I’m not,” Thorin said shortly.

“Well then. No wonder you’re so tetchy all the time,” Bilbo said, his mouth curving upwards in an attempt not to smile and which Thorin found oddly endearing before he realised what Bilbo was trying to imply. “Maybe you should get it out of your system.”

Thorin was just about to shoot back some insulting reply but he bit it down when a figure launched itself at him, knocking the wind from his lungs as arms wound around his torso.

“Fíli,” he breathed quietly, smiling as he leaned down into the embrace. He pulled away and regarded his niece, ruffling her hair as he smiled down at her.

“You haven’t come to see us in ages,” she said accusingly. Thorin could feel Bilbo’s gaze on him but he ignored him in favour of Fíli. “Mother will be so pleased to finally see you again,” she grinned. “She’s ‘round the back. Who’s your friend?” she asked, peering at Bilbo closely.

“This is–” he started but Bilbo interrupted him, bowing low and smiling as Fíli watched him in interest.

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service,” he said.

“Fíli Durin, at yours,” she responded, glancing up at Thorin with a smile on her face. “Come and see Mother.”

She led them away from the main hall, which Thorin saw Bilbo looking around carefully. There were people gathered in the corners and on the stairs, some in varying states of decency, and Bilbo managed to catch Thorin’s eye, arching one eyebrow and Thorin looked away, his face feeling uncomfortably warm. Bilbo seemed as if he wanted to ask something but he held his tongue, instead simply allowing himself to be led wherever it was Fíli was taking them.

Thorin knew the way to Dís’ business chamber as well as his niece and soon enough they approached a thick oak door Thorin knew. Fíli knocked and Dís’ voice told them to enter; as they did so she stood up from behind a large wooden desk covered in books and scrolls and inkwells. The room was furnished similarly to the rest of the building, with dark wooden panelling and deep pink and crimson wallpaper, couches and drapes in various pinks and reds here and there and oil lamps giving out a soft yellow glow that made Bilbo’s hair look almost golden.

“Thorin,” she greeted with a smile. “It’s been such a long time since you last visited, I’d almost forgotten what you looked like,” she grinned, coming over to them and holding his face in her hands, looking at him fondly.

“Please, Dís,” he muttered, slightly embarrassed by her open display of affection, not that he usually minded. But they had company today. “It’s only been a fortnight.”

“Who’s your friend?” she asked, her gaze sharpening as it fell on Bilbo and Thorin couldn’t help but smile at the exact mirror of her daughter’s question earlier. While Fíli favoured her late father in looks, her mind was just like her mother’s.

“He’s–”

“Bilbo Baggins,” Bilbo interrupted again and Thorin had to stifle the snort that welled up by turning it into a cough. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Durin,” he smiled in that charmingly disarming way, and Thorin was alarmed to see normally stoic Dís with a hint of a blush over her cheeks.

“Just ‘Miss’, actually,” she corrected, inspecting Bilbo carefully.

Bilbo looked struck. “‘Miss’?” he repeated. “Then you’re not – I thought – Fíli’s your daughter?” he looked desperately at Thorin, as if his entire being depended on his answer. Thorin blinked at him for a moment, a long interminable moment as everyone took in just which impression Bilbo had been labouring under. And Thorin laughed.

Admittedly it was only a small laugh, more of a chuckle, but it was enough to throw Bilbo off balance and even Dís looked vaguely surprised.

“My daughter?” Thorin repeated, not trying to hide the smile that appeared as he looked at Fíli. “And you thought Kíli was my son?” Bilbo nodded, his face nearly the same crimson as his sash. “Mahal, no! they’re my niece and nephew.”

Sudden understanding washed over Bilbo’s face as he looked at Dís. “So you’re–”

“Master Baggins, meet the proprietor of this establishment and my sister, Dís,” Thorin said, smirking at the uncomfortable look on Bilbo’s face. It felt nice not to be the one left floundering in embarrassment, he decided.

“I’m so sorry,” Bilbo managed to get out, his face still pink and looking as if he wanted the floor to open and swallow him up. But he was cut off from saying anything else by Dís’ laughter as she touched a hand to his shoulder.

“It’s not a problem,” she smiled. “Especially as I presume you’re the Child Gandalf said he’d try and persuade to join us?”

Bilbo nodded, looking grateful that he didn’t actually have to say anything to that, when Fíli let out a little exclamation.

“You’re the Child? Have you seen Kíli? He uses a bow and he’s always admired the Children for that–”

“I’ve spoken to your brother,” Bilbo smiled. “At least, a little. If we have time, perhaps I’ll be able to teach him some tricks.”

“It would help if you learnt how to use a sword,” Thorin muttered, more to himself than anything but Bilbo heard and turned to him angrily.

“Oh, not this again! I’ve told you, I know enough! And I’d like to see you kill a man from thirty yards with a poison dart to the neck,” he retorted, his cheeks flushing again in his anger and Thorin ignored how becoming it looked on him. Because it wasn’t, at all; it just emphasised how childlike he looked, with that smooth chin and soft skin–

Dís was looking at him thoughtfully and grinned wickedly when he glared at her, daring her to say anything. She merely shrugged her shoulders lightly.  “I’m sure Mr. Baggins has perfect aim,” she said tartly to Thorin, nearly making Thorin splutter although Bilbo didn’t seem to notice anything untoward in that statement. Right. “Now then, since it seems it’s too much to ask of you to simply drop in and visit me occasionally, you must be wanting something, Thorin,” Dís said, her gaze turning sharp as she looked at her brother expectantly. “What is it this time?”

“We need information,” he answered, ignoring her jibes and instead turning to Bilbo, who had crossed his arms and was looking at him darkly. “We found Nori and we suspect that this dagger belongs to the person keeping tabs on him. Do you recognise it?”

Bilbo handed Dís the knife, turning his back to Thorin completely. Dís pursed her lips as she inspected it, Fíli drawing closer to peer at it too, and in the concentrated silence a low growl was heard. Dís’ eyes flew to Thorin first before Bilbo clapped a hand to his stomach, looking sheepish.

“Sorry,” he apologised. “I’m just a little peckish, that’s all.”

“When was the last time you ate?” Dís asked, suddenly all motherly concern. Thorin had always found it immensely fatiguing trying to keep up with Dís’ switches between sweetness and honey and cold, sharp cunning.

“This morning,” Bilbo admitted. “After we first met up.”

Dís clucked in concern, tutting at Thorin. “You didn’t even give him time to eat before running off to find Pundurûn?” she asked in disapproval. “What have I _told_ you about working on an empty stomach? Fíli, go and fetch some food and something to drink, will you?” Fíli obligingly hurried out to the kitchens and Bilbo’s guilty look deepened slightly, although he certainly looked happier at the prospect of food. Thorin had to admit that his stomach too was starting to feel decidedly empty.

Dís sent him one last baleful glare which he rolled his eyes at before she went back to examining the blade; Fíli soon returned with two large men bearing trays piled high with food and – to Thorin’s unending gratitude – a jug of chilled ale.

“Bert said there’s more if you want it,” Fíli said as she held the door for the two men who had their hands full, before setting the trays down carefully on what space there was on the desk that wasn’t covered in parchment.  “But he seems to think there’s forty of us eating, not four.”

“That shouldn’t matter,” Dís said. “Thank you, William, Tom,” she smiled at the two who lowered the heads before shambling out. She turned back to the other two, Fíli coming to join her mother at the desk, slipping up gracefully to sit on it and shooting Thorin a knowing look as he poured himself a mug of the ale. It had been a trying day so far, and if he had to spend much more time with Bilbo Baggins without a drink he thought he’d go mad. Bilbo tucked right into the food, a look of simple bliss on his face as he sampled the selection of honey- and lemon-cakes, sweetened breads and chilled, sugared berries.

Dís suddenly stopped and set the blade down, turning to flick through a book before stopping and tapping the page thoughtfully. “Here,” she said, and Bilbo and Thorin both leaned in for a closer look, flinching when their shoulders met for a second and Bilbo shifted away, glaring at Thorin.

“Azdan?” Thorin read aloud. “This is his?”

“The very same,” Dís said, looking pleased with herself. “He came in a few weeks ago; he had this design on his breast and his cloak.”

Fíli was inspecting the knife now and nodded. “I remember him. He was telling Nína about how he could afford to be generous when all the girls know he’s one of the meanest clients around.” Even Thorin was impressed; he hadn’t realised Fíli’s memory was that good. Dís only looked proud and Thorin supposed she was training her up to be a proper Durin.

He felt Bilbo’s uncertain, almost sad look as he glanced between Thorin and his sister and niece and quickly coughed darkly. “Fíli is not one of the girls,” Thorin said and Bilbo looked relieved. “She helps her mother with the business side of things.”

Fíli grinned at Bilbo cheekily. “I’m better at numbers than Uncle.”

Bilbo smiled, turning it into a smirk when he caught Thorin’s eye. “I’m sure you are.” Thorin just glowered, his eyes not leaving Bilbo even when he turned away back to Fíli, the girl asking Bilbo about his bow again. Thorin couldn’t understand why they were all so taken by the idea of using a bow; at least Fíli was a good, traditional Durin and was almost as good with her twin knives and short sword as she was at figures. Which she was admittedly very gifted at.

“Fíli,” Dís chastised her after a moment. “Wait a moment; you can talk to Mr. Baggins on the way to the base.”

“What?” Thorin asked in confusion.

Dís gave Thorin a look then and rolled her eyes. “We’ll need to speak to Balin about all of this,” she said, gesturing to the knife and open page before her. “I’m the one with the information, so I’d best be there. Fíli, run and tell Mírim she’s in charge for now, will you?”

Fíli huffed but that was the extent of her rebellion before she scuttled out of the room, only to return a minute later with a nod. In that time Dís had led them out into a back yard of green trees and shade, a fountain in the middle of it all. Dís headed to a small door, partly obscured by more trails of the ivy that covered parts of the house; with a small key she pulled from up her sleeve she unlocked it and pushed the door open. They all filed in after her.

“I take it this is more of your underground tunnel network?” Bilbo asked Thorin as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark after the bright sunshine. Thorin nodded before realising he probably wouldn’t see it and replying out loud.

“Yes. It was part of the reason we let Dís take up her position here–”

“No one _let_ me do anything,” Dís said sharply, turning and joining them from where she finished locking the door behind them. “I would have done it even if you hadn’t approved, Thorin; the fact there’s an easy escape from here is just a bonus.”

Thorin said nothing to that, merely gave a small snort as they continued in silence for a while. Soon Fíli’s innate curiosity got the better of her and she pulled Bilbo into conversation. Once they were off, Dís pulled Thorin closer and elbowed him in the ribs.

“Ow,” Thorin protested, not that he really felt it all that much. He could almost _feel_ her eye-roll in the darkness.

“How’s it all going with him?” she nodded in Bilbo’s direction. Thorin didn’t answer immediately, trying to think of an answer that wouldn’t earn him another elbow jammed into his ribs.

“Not brilliantly,” he said finally.

“Really?” Dís sounded surprised. “It looked to me like you two were good.”

Thorin didn’t try and stifle the snort he gave that time. “Good?” he scoffed. “The man is arrogant, cocky, irritating–”

“Are you sure you’re not describing yourself?” Dís asked, her voice full of mirth. “Sounds like he’s the only one of us not to take your crap.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Thorin said sullenly. Dís just chuckled and patted his shoulder.

“Of course not,” she said, amusement still evident in her voice. “But I think I like this Mr. Baggins. Please try not to scare him off.”

Thorin snorted and gave an exasperated sigh which Dís just laughed at.

***

Fíli couldn’t have been more than fourteen  or fifteen, Bilbo thought, but for all that, her mind was quick and sharp. It was obvious she loved her brother, as her eyes brightened whenever she spoke of him.

“Why are you not together?” Bilbo asked her. “Why are you separated?”

Fíli paused as she thought about how to answer. “They think it’s safer,” she said finally. “If people knew of us, if they knew how we were related to Uncle Thorin, we’d be in danger. They keep us apart so that if anything happens to one of us, it’s only one of us...” she trailed off, before continuing and Bilbo could hear the determination in her voice. “Which is stupid. If anything happened to Kíli, I’d go out there and find him or whoever hurt him. He’s my little brother,” she finished fiercely.

Bilbo had never had a brother or sister, but he’d been surrounded by family and had never really felt that loss. Now, though, he wondered what it was like. “He’s lucky to have you,” Bilbo said quietly, and Fíli’s blonde head nodded beside him.

“Mother’s not as bad as Uncle at worrying, actually. He’s the worst for it, even though it wasn’t _his_ lover they killed. They killed my father when they discovered he was one of the Sons,” she said, shrugging. “It was a long time ago, and I only remember him from Mum’s stories. But it made everyone realise what they might do to us, so I’ve grown up with Mother and the courtesans while Kíli’s had Uncle.”

Bilbo considered that; he could see the reasoning behind separating the two, but it seemed a little unfair that Fíli’s role was more limited than Kíli’s. Amongst the Children there was little to no differentiation made between genders. Bilbo wondered what would have happened had both Fíli and Kíli been born boys, or girls. Silence had fallen behind them, Dís and Thorin having finished their whispered cross between an argument and a conversation.

“Why are you helping us, Mister Bilbo?” Fíli asked suddenly from beside him, her gaze on him heavy even in the dim light of the tunnel. Bilbo didn’t answer immediately, his throat closing almost painfully as he remembered. He lifted the left sleeve of his tunic then, revealing the scars of a burn he always kept hidden. The scar stretched up his arm to his shoulder and down his side; he could feel it prickling despite the fact the nerves there were long dead. It had been a part of him for so long he didn’t even remember it was there most days.

“You’re not the only one to have suffered loss, child,” he said thickly, watching Fíli’s reaction as she took in the angry red mottling, and quickly covered his arm again. No one said anything, but he felt a small warm hand on his arm and he swallowed with only a little difficulty. He glanced behind and met Thorin’s gaze, the Son’s eyes filled with something he couldn’t place; it made him uncomfortable so he looked away, returning his gaze to watching his footing, as the rubble was making a reappearance and he had no wish to end up flat on his face.

To his relief they weren’t travelling for much longer and soon enough they reached the door they’d arrived at earlier that day. When Kíli opened the door he flew straight to Fíli’s arms, which made Bilbo’s heart tug almost painfully; if his help meant that these two children could be together again then he supposed he’d put up with their irritating uncle.

When they were once again joined by Balin in the older man’s office, Bilbo showed him the knife and Dís explained her suspicions about it belonging to Azdan. Fíli and Kíli had migrated to sit by the fire together while he, Thorin, Dís and Balin discussed what was to be done.

“What else can you tell us of him?” Balin asked, stroking his long white beard thoughtfully as he looked at Dís. Now that Bilbo was free to look at her properly without his previous mortification hanging over him, he realised that she really was just the female version of Thorin. They had the same sharp, noble features, bright eyes – although hers were accentuated by smile lines, rather than Thorin’s frown – and raven black hair. It beggared belief that he hadn’t noticed it before.

“Well now,” Dís grinned wickedly. “It turns out he’s more than simply in the way. He’s an unsavoury character through and through. My girls are privy to a lot of things and he’s got not only a wife at home, but he’s housing a mistress too.”

“Not in the same house, surely?” Bilbo asked, aghast; bad enough that he was unfaithful, let alone keeping a visual reminder of his infidelity about for his wife to see.

“No,” Dís assured him. “He lives in the Citadel, but apparently he’s paying for a house for her in the Upper Circle. In Rivendell.”

“The man has more money than sense,” Thorin muttered. “Not surprising, if he’s working for Smaug. He likes them too stupid to question his orders.”

“That can be exploited,” Bilbo said eagerly. “We need him to back off Nori, so we need to persuade him that it’s not worth it. Teach him a lesson, of sorts, and we can use his mistress as an example–”

“No,” Thorin said vehemently. “I am _not_ going to reveal her to his wife and beat him up for her. I’ve had to deal with too many cuckolded spouses and I swear if I have to do one more I won’t be held responsible for my actions.” Bilbo saw his fists had clenched before he breathed deeply and released them, keeping them flat to his side. He still wore a glower though and it only deepened when he caught Bilbo’s look. “Measures had to be taken to get by. I’m sure you’d do the same for your own people,” he said defensively.

“Of course,” Bilbo agreed easily. “Which is why I’ll do it. But not how you think.”

“What do you mean?” Thorin asked, his face clouding in confusion.

Dís had pursed her lips and was looking at Bilbo thoughtfully, smirking slightly. Bilbo grinned as he answered.

“I’ll charm his wife; when he finds her with me I’ll offer him an ultimatum: leave Nori alone or his wife dies and his mistress becomes common knowledge. You know how they are in the Citadel; all the while it’s only whispers it’s nothing, but once it’s out there it’s a scandal. And if his wife happens to die at the same time he’s paying for an expensive house for his mistress… I don’t think he’d be in a position to negotiate.”

“And you’re sure he won’t let her die anyway?” Balin asked. “These nobles treat their women like property; the wife might not mean that much to him.”

“At the very least, she’s his key to society,” Dís snorted. “Her father was a rich banker – most likely corrupt too, but that’s beside the point – and Azdan was some minor gentry. He won’t let her die, not when she’s the only way to climb higher.”

Thorin said nothing, only continued to glare.

“What do you think, brother-mine?” Dís asked, looking at him in amusement. “Don’t you think Bilbo’s plan is a fine one?”

“What makes you think you can charm this woman anyway?” he asked Bilbo shortly. “You’re hardly–”

“We could send you,” Dís interrupted him with a firm look. Bilbo only just kept the smirk off his face; he knew what Thorin had been about to say. “But you’d probably frighten her to death as soon as she looked at you,” she carried on and Thorin shut his mouth, clenching his jaw. Bilbo saw a muscle twitch and couldn’t stop the smile that did spread across his face then.

“I guess you’ll never know,” he said lightly to Thorin, whose scowl grew even darker, and turned to Balin, his back to the arrogant Son. He saw Balin trying to smother a smirk beneath his beard and Dís didn’t even bother trying to hide her laughter.

“That settles it then,” Balin said. “Bilbo will see to Lady Azdan. You and Dwalin will go as back-up in case our friend proves trouble,” he said to Thorin, who huffed, no doubt annoyed that he was being told what to do. Not that Bilbo cared overly much; he thought too much of himself as it was. “But tonight, I think we should see what there is for dinner, if Gandalf’s left us anything edible. He sabotaged the pantry while you were out.”

“Good luck with that,” Bilbo chuckled. “The larder in Bag End is always significantly emptier after he’s left.”

He turned and followed Balin, Dís and the children out of the room to see about some food, leaving Thorin alone to brood in the empty office, glowering darkly at the fire.

***

Thorin didn’t speak to anyone else that evening, only wishing his sister and niece and nephew goodnight. Dís and Fíli were staying the night in the tunnels, since Dís hadn’t seen Kíli in a while. Thorin missed Fíli and she was only his niece; it must be even harder for Dís to be parted from her own child for so long at a time.

Sleep didn’t come easily, however, and he lay awake for a long, long while thinking about what an utterly unusual day it had been. It was hard to feel too annoyed, because while this Bilbo Baggins may be an irritating presence, the Children of Yavanna were now allies of the Sons of Durin; vengeance had never felt so close. Thorin tried to dampen the feeling of hope that was burning in his chest at the thought of finally getting closure, of getting rid of Smaug, but it flickered on just as brightly as before.

Bilbo could continue to be a thorn in Thorin’s side if he wished, but Thorin would put up with it if it meant retribution for what Smaug did to his family.

His new-found resolution and determination didn’t last long, however, when he was once more forced to tolerate the Child’s presence. Thorin couldn’t place what _exactly_ it was about the man that irritated him; all he knew was that he did and it made it very hard to be civil. Not that Bilbo seemed to be trying too hard to hide his disdain for Thorin, instead favouring Balin or Dís or even the children with his attention rather than Thorin.

Dís and Fíli left by mid-morning, and to cheer Kíli up Bilbo offered to watch him use his bow, so the two went off. Dwalin and Thorin were left in the office while Balin went to the library; Thorin continued to stare glumly at the empty fireplace while Dwalin paced back and forth before he eventually sat in the chair opposite Thorin and started sharpening his axes.

“What do you think of this Child then?” Dwalin asked as he lovingly scraped his whetstone over Grasper’s blade. Thorin shrugged.

“What do _you_ think?” he asked.

“That’s not an answer,” Dwalin pointed out. “I don’t know what I think of him yet. I’ll see how he does tonight; ask me again then and I can give you an answer. But you’ve spent time with him already.”

Thorin just shrugged again. “It feels like he’s been here a lifetime already and it’s not even been a day.”

Dwalin chuckled. “That bad, eh?”

“Worse,” Thorin muttered.

“I think you’re well suited,” Dwalin said and Thorin looked at him aghast, but his friend was determinedly looking down at his axes and not at him. “He’s got guts to stand up to you.”

“ _You_ stand up to me,” Thorin protested. “In fact the whole lot of you stand up to me. Balin might as well be the Leader for all the attention you all pay me.”

“I’ve seen you as no more’n a green lad,” Dwalin pointed out, looking up then. “You remember when you first came to us, Thorin?”

Thorin looked away. He didn’t need reminding; those days were the hardest in perhaps his entire life; the raw agony of grief from losing his family still ripping him apart as well as the physical pain Dwalin forced him to endure as he trained him. Without it he’d never be here today, but it was not a good period in his life, that much was certain.

“An’ Dís has seen you as a snotty little boy,” Dwalin continued. “No wonder she doesn’t take you seriously after that.”

“She was still in swaddling bands when I was teaching Frerin to chase me ‘round the nursery,” he said defensively. Dwalin just smirked and carries on.

“…And those kids have got you wrapped around their little fingers.” Thorin only smiled at that. “It’s no wonder no one listens to you,” Dwalin smirked.

“You’re just lucky I like you,” Thorin said with no real malice.

The rest of the day passed slowly, though it perhaps only felt so slow because everyone knew what was happening that evening. Thorin was jittery, although Bilbo seemed to be taking it rather well and even deigned to give him a smug smile at lunchtime when Kíli came running inside with his longbow, crowing about how Mister Bilbo had helped him.

“I prefer the crossbow,” Bilbo had said as they ate. “Easier for use while climbing.” He flicked aside his cloak to reveal one in dark wood, emblazoned with Yavanna’s fruit; it was smaller than Thorin would expect but he had no doubt that in Bilbo’s hands it was deadly. Bilbo’s arched eyebrow in his direction told him just what Bilbo wished to do with that crossbow, and he scowled. It didn’t help that Dwalin couldn’t contain the smirk that appeared on his face as he saw the two of them glare at each other.

After lunch Bilbo disappeared with Balin into the library, the short man taken by the presence of so many books. His smile lit up his whole face and Thorin caught himself thinking that he really looked so nice when he smiled, and quickly turned away to go and brood. That didn’t last long, however, as Kíli wanted him to watch him practice. For a twelve-year-old, he was rather good, and Thorin’s heart swelled with pride as he watched Kíli hit the target nearly every time. He wasn’t sure that he had to hit it right in the groin so many times, however. He sensed Bilbo’s influence there.

He, Dwalin and Bilbo ran through their plan for later that evening; it was all very simple but they’d need to be coordinated, of all things, and their timing had to be right.

Eventually evening began to fall and Thorin and Dwalin began to ready themselves. From what they knew of Azdan, the man seemed the cowardly sort who wouldn’t put up much of a fight, but it was better safe than sorry. And Thorin was _not_ worried at all about the possibility of Bilbo trying to bury a knife in him somewhere to vent his frustration when he put his extra layers of boiled leather on underneath his cloak. Or a bolt from his deceptively innocent-looking crossbow.

As dusk fell they met by the entrance to the underground tunnels and Thorin was minutely intrigued as to why Bilbo kept his hood up as they travelled, keeping his face in shadow. There was no one to see him but them, and there was no light to speak of to need to keep his face shielded. Either way, they made good time and the sun had just set beyond the Mirkwood on the western outskirts of the city by the time they surfaced at the walls of the Citadel.

Guards were common here but Bilbo led them to a section of wall that was apparently unmanned; it was only as they slipped through the toll-gate that Bilbo whistled and tossed a coin to the boy who had suddenly poked his head out from the guard house.

“Share it with the others, Milo, you little scamp!” Bilbo called softly at him and the lad grinned as he caught it. “I told you, I have friends,” Bilbo said defensively at Thorin and Dwalin’s look. Right. The Children counted _street-urchins_ as friends. Though in their favour, they had proven a distraction to the guards and successfully detained them for long enough that the three of them could enter the Citadel.

They moved quickly and silently, moving in coordination and keeping an eye out for guards. When one walked past them and his eyes widened as he saw them, Thorin had only a moment to think about pulling his sword out before the man clapped a hand to his neck with a yelp and fell to the ground with a moan.

“He’s only asleep,” Bilbo assured them as he dragged the man to the cover of the shadows they’d been hiding in. “He’ll wake up in a few hours, and he won’t remember a thing.”

Thorin had to admit it was probably better than killing him. That would only raise suspicion, if guards started going missing on their watch.

Finally they reached the house that belonged to Azdan and his wife. It was large; certainly not the largest in the Citadel but one of the larger ones, the red brick exterior with large windows covered in velvet drapes showing off the wealth of its occupants. Bilbo pointed up to the roof silently and the three of them scrambled noiselessly up. That was a definite benefit of brick houses, Thorin reflected: the large number of handholds they offered. When the three of them reached the roof, hiding in the shadow of a chimney, they spoke softly.

“Remember,” Bilbo said, his face still in shadow, “ _hidden._ ” Thorin only just managed to keep from rolling his eyes; they’d gone through this.

Bilbo located the Lady’s bedchamber and, having ascertained that she was not inside, slipped in and whistled to let the others know. They followed, and after that there was some silent manoeuvring as he and Dwalin hid themselves in various wardrobes. Bilbo himself remained in the room at large, flopping down on the bed as they waited. It grew later and later and Thorin was beginning to worry that Lady Azdan wouldn’t come when they heard soft footsteps on the stairs and the door opened.

There was a moment of nail-biting silence, made worse for Thorin by the fact he could see only a thin strip of the room and nothing at all of Bilbo or the woman, before they heard a feminine squeak of surprise, but no screams.

“I came for you,” Thorin heard Bilbo say and the difference in his voice was alarming. Thorin almost would have believed it to be someone else. His voice was low, almost husky, and Thorin wondered how on earth someone who looked like a baby seal could sound so sultry.

“Who are you and what are you doing in my bedchamber?” Lady Azdan asked shakily. She still hadn’t moved from the doorway and Thorin could still see nothing except the strip of panelled wall the wardrobe afforded him.

“I think the question is where is your husband, my lady?” he responded. “I can tell you, if you wish.” This change in Bilbo was getting ever more disconcerting.

“He’s seeing to his business in the city,” Lady Azdan said, sounding half scared and half stubborn, as if she wasn’t sure why she was even talking to this stranger.

Thorin could see nothing of Bilbo’s face, so had no way of knowing how he responded to that. “Ah, what business it is.”

“I think you should leave,” Lady Azdan said then, the slight shake in her voice belying her fear.

“You’re lonely,” Bilbo said and Thorin heard the soft pad of his steps as he came closer. “Your husband thought you might appreciate some company.”

“He – he sent you?” she sounded unsure.

“He did,” Bilbo almost _purred_ , and Thorin’s lungs seemed to have stopped working. “For you.” And then Thorin straightened as he saw Bilbo pass in front of the gap before the wardrobe; the flash of honey curls he saw told him that he’d removed his hood but that was all he could glean from the split second glance he got. Those words seemed to do the trick as there was no word of protest from Lady Azdan and there was the unmistakeable sound of lips meeting. This whole experience was so surreal that Thorin could hardly believe it was actually happening; he fervently wished it wasn’t when he heard the woman’s breath start to come shallowly.

“I don’t think you should be here,” she whispered. “This is a trap, I’m sure of it–”

Thorin held his breath at her words but Bilbo only laughed, and it sounded so unlike him – so low and dangerous – it almost made Thorin’s toes curl.

“Not at all,” Bilbo said, his voice so low Thorin barely heard him. It was too warm in this closet, amongst the lady’s dresses and furs; Thorin was sure his face was bright red as he tried to focus on anything other than how disconcerting this side to Bilbo was–

Then salvation came in the form of Lord Azdan calling through the house for his wife. Thank Mahal.

They heard the woman’s frightened gasp and Bilbo’s muffled calm assurance and the sound of clothes hitting the floor; the next moment the door to her bedchamber opened and there was a moment of utter silence.

Then a roar of rage as Azdan flew towards Bilbo and his wife where they were on the bed, but it was cut short. Thorin and Dwalin simultaneously threw open their doors, revealing themselves, and Lady Azdan would have fainted if it hadn’t been for Bilbo’s blade at her throat.

“Stay where you are, _sir,_ ” Bilbo said dangerously, and Thorin did a double-take when he looked at his face. Bilbo had dark kohl around his eyes, making them appear larger and even brighter than they did normally. He looked seductive, exotic… Thorin should not have felt the stirring of interest he did then, taking in Bilbo’s kissed-red lips and tousled curls; desperately he licked his dry lips and focussed on Azdan’s angry, ugly red face, his eyes almost bulging out of their sockets in his anger.

“You let go of her–” he started to say but before he could move or finish his sentence he found two blades at his back and his wife struggled for breath as Bilbo pressed the blade closer.

“I told you not to move,” Bilbo said, still in those silky soft tones. “I’m going to make you a deal.”

Azdan said nothing and Bilbo continued, keeping a tight hold on the woman. She wasn’t struggling – in fact, she looked absolutely terrified – but it was better to be careful.

“You’re going to stop keeping tabs on a friend of mine. You know him as Pundurûn. You’ll let him go and you’re never going to set spies or watchers on him again. Do you understand?” Thorin had to swallow to wet his dry throat; Bilbo’s voice was dangerously soft and seductive despite the words he was saying.

“And if I don’t?” Azdan bit out. Thorin pressed his knife in ever so slightly closer to the man’s side in answer.

“Then she dies,” Bilbo said simply and Lady Azdan let out a terrified whimper. Thorin severely hoped the man would agree without a fuss. “But that’s not all,” Bilbo continued, his voice hypnotic. “By tomorrow morning, everyone in the Citadel will know about your mistress in Rivendell. And you know what they’ll think, don’t you?” When Azdan said nothing, Bilbo said it for him. “They’ll think you murdered your wife to raise up a whore, to dress her in your wife’s silks and parade her around as your little trophy. And you know what will happen then? You’ll lose everything. So I suggest you think very carefully about your decision, _my lord.”_

Azdan was shaking in fury, his eyes never leaving Bilbo’s kohl-rimmed ones, until eventually he broke.

“Fine,” he spat. “Your friend can go.”

“And you’ll never follow him again?” Thorin cut in, digging the knife in even more deeply until the man winced as it broke the skin.

“Never,” he agreed through gritted teeth.

Bilbo removed his knife from the woman, who fell to the bed gasping and coughing, too relieved to be away from the knife to worry about her state of undress. Bilbo wrapped a blanket around her shoulders before turning to Azdan. Thorin nodded to Dwalin to keep an eye on her, although he doubted she’d do much considering she was shivering violently and softly weeping.

“Now tell me where you’re keeping the inventor,” Bilbo demanded.

“Mimûn,” Thorin clarified for the man, who was still angry and had set his jaw. “I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Where is he?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking abou–” Thorin dug his knife in even deeper then, cutting him off.

“Tell me, or you’ll die,” he said in a growl. Azdan responded with a growl of his own and Thorin merely continued digging in deeper with his knife, the shirt growing wet and sticky with the man’s blood.

“Gundabad,” the man choked out finally. “Azog’s got him in Gundabad.” Thorin was about to release him but Bilbo narrowed his eyes and stepped forward.

“I don’t believe you,” he said simply. His knife was back in his hand and he advanced threateningly. “Tell me the truth or you won’t live to regret it.”

Azdan seemed as if he was going to be contrary but when Thorin angled the knife so that it bit sharply into his now sensitive flesh, he let out a pitiful whimper. “They took him to Weathertop,” he cried. “They’ve got him in Weathertop,” he repeated and Thorin let go of him in disgust. The man dropped to the floor and the three of them made their way to the window.

“You know what will happen if you break our deal,” Bilbo said warningly to the snivelling man on the floor, who nodded. “Go and tend to your wife,” Bilbo finished coldly before turning and climbing out and down into the streets of the Citadel.

***

“That went rather well, all things considered,” Bilbo said as they slipped quickly and quietly through the large streets.  “Now we need to get to Weathertop.”

Weathertop was a prison close to the Shire, set on the outskirts of the Old Forest. It was much less well-guarded than Gundabad, which was where traitors and anyone who opposed Smaug’s rule were deposited and left to rot in high security. Weathertop was left for the petty criminals and murderers who didn’t overly concern Smaug, so long as they kept their dealings to the common folk. It was a stroke of luck that Ori had been taken there and not Gundabad.

“Have you seen Ori?” Dwalin asked him once they left the Citadel, this time scaling a wall and dropping down the other side while the guard’s patrol took him to the other end of his post. “He’s nothing like Nori. His strength is in his mind, not his arms. Ori won’t prove a troublesome prisoner, so they don’t need high security for him.”

“Well, they’ll regret being so relaxed about imprisoning him when we break him out, won’t they?” Bilbo asked lightly. Even in the dark of the night he could feel Thorin watching him and he turned to face him. “Are you alright, Thorin?” he asked brusquely and was surprised when Thorin coughed and looked away.

“I’m fine,” he said roughly, pushing past Bilbo and going on ahead.

“Don’t mind him,” Dwalin said beside him, a smirk on his face. “It’s been a rather long day.”

Bilbo snorted. “Anyone would think he didn’t like me,” he said breezily. Not that Bilbo cared overly much; so long as he got his due for helping the Sons, he didn’t mind. Bringing down Smaug was the priority, not becoming best buddies with the people he was helping, especially not his rival Order.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not the problem,” Dwalin said but Bilbo missed the knowing smirk still on Dwalin’s face as he glanced forward at his leader, who was walking furiously fast as if possessed, his shoulders hunched forward. Bilbo just snorted in disbelief and the rest of their journey north passed in relative silence.

It was that odd time of morning as they reached the outskirts of the Old Forest, travelling around it to reach Weathertop on the western edge, that time when night begins to peel away before the sun has truly begun to rise, leaving the world in a strange indigo-grey haze and devoid of other colour before the sun spreads its arms of pink and gold. The world was strangely quiet, muted in both noise and colour, but they still saw Weathertop clearly against the gradually lightening sky. It was set upon a hill, thick stone walls encircling the short, stumpy tower that was the prison.

“How are we going to get him out?” Dwalin looked at the other two, who were studying the structure carefully. There were no guards outside – the attitude seeming to be, whoever managed to get out, good luck to ‘em – so they’d climbed up and were peering over the thick stone wall at the goings-on below.

“I’ll go,” Thorin said quietly. “I’ll go down and kill the guards while you two find Ori and get him out of here.”

“No!” both Bilbo and Dwalin protested.

“Let me go,” Dwalin tried to persuade him while Bilbo’s interruption bordered on “that’s an idiotic idea”, though not in so many words. Thorin looked at him in annoyance.

“How would you go about it, then?” Thorin asked bitingly and Bilbo smiled, his poison darts appearing in his hand.

“Why put yourself in danger when you can pick them off like this?” he asked lightly, almost laughing as Thorin’s habitual scowl once more darkened his features.

“You do that, I’ll get Ori,” he said gruffly.  He pointed to a guard. “Start with that one, he’s got the alarm horn.”

Ever so carefully Bilbo edged along the top of the wall, making sure to make as little noise as possible. People didn’t usually look up, but they would if they heard his footsteps. When he got close to the guard Thorin had pointed out, he looked him over quickly. His armour was thin but too thick for his dart to puncture; he wore no helmet, however, and Bilbo grinned as he aimed at the pulse point on the man’s neck. It was nearly soundless, the only noise a surprised yelp and one sickly, wet cough from the man before he fell to the floor.

Bilbo moved along the wall, repeating the gesture to any guard who happened to get too close and who wasn’t wearing sufficient armour. One got a knife through the back when he stumbled across his fellow guard’s body and knelt to check him over.

Satisfied Bilbo hurried back to Dwalin, this time running rather than inching along the top of the wall. Dwalin was squatting on the top of the thick wall too and Bilbo joined him in watching Thorin make his way up the stone wall of the hold. It was nerve-racking; Bilbo may have taken out the guards but Thorin could still fall to his death. Thankfully he didn’t and he made it to the top, where there was a crumbling sentry post that hadn’t seen use in years.

“Where’s Ori?” Bilbo asked. “Can Thorin get to him?”

“I hope so,” Dwalin muttered back. “I doubt he’s in the communal cells, he’s too important for that; they’ve probably got him on a higher level.”

Bilbo’s eyes were starting to itch where they were rimmed with kohl and he resisted the urge to rub it. It’d only make it worse, he knew. The wait for Thorin once he disappeared from their view was agonising. They’d had no time to prepare for this; perhaps they should have retreated to the safe house, made plans and back-up plans and routes, but they hadn’t and everything could go so terribly wrong–

Bilbo started to hope when he saw Thorin emerge from that same sentry post, propping up a young man who was limping slightly. Maybe they could get out and away before anyone realised.

But that hope was extinguished when shouts were heard from the guard room as Thorin was still only halfway down the prison wall, Ori clinging to him as they descended. The Son sped up and managed to reach the ground, but as Thorin turned and sprinted to the outer wall, Ori still on his back, guards poured out from their rooms and barracks and instantly moved into attack.

Bilbo heard Thorin’s muted growl as the arrow hit his leg, but he only moved faster. Dwalin reached down to help drag Ori up off Thorin’s back and helped him down the other side.

“Get Ori back to the others,” Bilbo called to him. “I’m helping Thorin.” Dwalin looked torn between leaving his Leader and getting Ori to safety; when the younger lad started shivering he nodded sharply at Bilbo, scooped Ori up and hurried off into the steadily lightening morning. Bilbo focused back on the scene below.

Thorin’s grip on the stone handholds was failing, his knuckles white as he fought to hold on, his injured leg trembling and giving way beneath him. Quick as a flash Bilbo loaded his crossbow and fired two bolts, bringing down the two archers who were causing Thorin the most difficulty. It allowed Thorin a momentary advantage before they were simply replaced and Bilbo hurried to take them out too, though their armour was better fixed and the bolts bounced off harmlessly. To Bilbo’s dismay there were guards on the walls now, headed their way; he dropped down to join Thorin on the other side.

“You’re going to have to trust me,” he said. Thorin’s face was beaded with sweat and he was panting heavily; one glance up at the ramparts showed him how dire their situation was getting and his hesitation was momentary. He nodded and wrapped his arms around Bilbo, who quick as a flash scaled back up the wall and down again, dropping the last few feet onto the other side.

“Can you run?” Bilbo asked as they straightened.

“I’m going to have to,” Thorin said grimly as he glanced back up at where the soldiers on the ramparts were readying their weapons.

***

They made it back to the city before Thorin’s leg buckled and gave out, sending him sprawling onto the ground. It was still early but Thorin knew they didn’t have long until the streets began to fill. Shakily he got back up on his feet, pushing Bilbo away when he tried to help him up, but it was no good and he nearly brought Bilbo down with him that time.

Bilbo made to reach for the wounded leg but Thorin pushed him away again, hissing as it made the injuries twinge. “I’m fine,” he said curtly, “just help me up –”

“Thorin bloody Oakenshield, you are _not_ fine!” Bilbo shot him down and it surprised Thorin – at least, that was his excuse for how Bilbo managed to get hold of the leg. When he looked about to protest again Bilbo looked at him from those hazel eyes, the kohl now slightly smudged but the effect still made Thorin’s throat close up. Especially when coupled with Bilbo’s coaxing, vaguely threatening voice. “In a few minutes this street will get extremely busy and it will be incredibly hard for you to avoid detection if you can’t even walk. Now let me look!”

Bilbo turned his attention to the wounds, his cool touch firm but gentle. Pulling a few leaves from a pouch at his belt he chewed on them before pressing them to Thorin’s leg. When he made a face Bilbo glared at him.

“What is it?” Thorin asked, gesturing at the green blob that now covered the wounds. His leg had stopped shaking and he was able to stand, with Bilbo’s help.

“Athelas,” Bilbo said shortly. “It’s a pain-killer. It’ll also stop the wound getting infected before we can get it cleaned up properly.”

The streets did fill then but by that point they were back close to Erebor and Thorin pointed out one of the secret underground entrances to Bilbo so that they could walk unhindered and unseen.

“You’re completely ridiculous,” Bilbo told him as he limped along, leaning on the wall. “Just let me help you. It’s easier than your shuffling.”

“I’m fine,” Thorin protested and this time Bilbo didn’t even bother to listen, instead grabbing Thorin’s free arm and draping it around his neck.

“Let me help you,” he said again, more softly this time, and like a rabbit caught out in the open Thorin was helpless to do anything but stare and nod dumbly. He wondered even more about this Child, this soul with a caring heart and a past that had left him with visible scars.

Everyone knew Thorin Oakenshield; everyone knew he wanted revenge. But Thorin couldn’t for the life of him decipher Bilbo Baggins.

 


	4. Bowed, not Broken

**Chapter IV**

“He’s doing fine,” Balin said, looking tired as he shut the door to Thorin’s chamber behind him. “He’s asleep now but he’s well. That plant you put on his leg did wonders. What on earth is it?”

“Athelas,” Bilbo said. “Or kingsfoil. There are all sorts of plants that grow in the Old Forest which the Children use. Admittedly, mostly as poisons,” he smiled, “but even poisons have other properties.”

“So it seems,” Balin said, looking at Bilbo in interest and stroking his beard. “Have you met Ori?”

“Not yet,” Bilbo said. “I was too busy saving Thorin to properly make his acquaintance earlier.”

Bilbo had half-dragged, half-carried an increasingly resentful and frustrated Thorin back to the safe house at about the eighth hour that morning, taking him straight to his chamber where a worried Balin immediately set about sorting his wounds, muttering something about ‘oin’. Bilbo had been too exhausted to enquire into what or who that was and had instead fallen into his own bed, only waking up once it was well into the afternoon. They’d be having tea soon if he was back in the Shire.

“He’s with his brothers at the moment, but I know he’d like to meet you. They’d all like to, really, but Ori particularly.”

“Brothers?” Bilbo repeated. “He has more than just Nori?”

Balin looked apologetic. “There’s Dori too, the eldest of the three. Fiercely protective of Ori and rather despairing of Nori, but he loves them both dearly.”

“He’s a Son of Durin too?”

“Indeed. One of our finest assassins, in fact, and about the only one who can best Dwalin in a fight.” He gave a tired sigh. “He’s been out of the city recently looking for people who might be willing to join our fight, but he returned alone.”

“Well,” Bilbo said a little awkwardly, “you’ve got the Children now.”

Balin smiled at him but his eyes still looked strained. “Indeed we do, and I thank you for it. Would you like to meet the brothers Ri?” he said then and Bilbo nodded.

Balin turned and bade him follow as he led him through the long corridors of the Sons’ hideout, stopping before a door and knocking gently. Someone inside called out for them to enter and Balin did so, letting Bilbo in beside him. The one Bilbo knew as Ori was sitting on the bed that sat in the corner of the room, a book beside him; the man with the elaborate hairstyle Bilbo had met during their brief exchange in the clock tower, Nori, sat idly with his feet on the desk, lolling in his seat; a bulky man with braided greying hair sat next to Ori on the bed. Bilbo assumed that this was Dori; he looked as if he could crush Bilbo with hardly a second thought, and Bilbo was duly wary.

“Gentlemen, this is Bilbo Baggins,” Balin introduced them. “The Master Assassin of the Children of Yavanna.”

“Hello,” Bilbo supplied, trying hard not to let his gaze linger too long on Dori lest the muscled man decide he was offended. The Sons’ dispositions were often rather volatile and very prickly, after all. But in fact it was quite the opposite.

Dori immediately stood and ushered Bilbo inside the room. “Come in, Mister Baggins, come in! Nori,” he said sharply, turning to the middle brother, “get up and join your brother on the bed, and let Mister Baggins sit there. _Now._ ” The two brothers glared at each other for a long moment until Nori rolled his eyes and dropped his feet to the floor with a sigh, though he grinned at Bilbo as he stood and flopped next to Ori on the bed. “So nice to meet you, Mister Baggins,” Dori continued, “None of us were sure if Gandalf could persuade a Child to help us, but here you are and I must say–”

“Let the man breathe, Dori,” Nori said, his voice full of mirth as he gave Bilbo a side-long look and a smirk.

Ori interrupted before Dori could retort. “You’re a real-life Child of Yavanna?” he asked, eyes wide as saucers, and his genuine eagerness made Bilbo smile.

“Indeed I am,” he smiled. “At your service.”

“You saved me, last night,” Ori said solemnly. “I want to thank you.”

“I only helped,” Bilbo pointed out, but Ori shook his head.

“I’d still be in there if it wasn’t for you. Thank you, Mister Baggins, truly.” His eyes were so earnest as he looked up at Bilbo that Bilbo found his heart warming. Ori couldn’t be more than twenty, maybe even younger given his almost childlike wonder.

Dori looked as if he was going to start on another tirade of thanks so Bilbo quickly interrupted before he could. “It was nothing,” he smiled gently at Ori. It wasn’t strictly true – after all, Thorin was currently on bed rest because of it – and it warranted a snort from Nori, which earned the man a glare from his older brother.

“Can we get you some tea, Mr. Baggins?” Dori asked. “I’m sure I’ve got some chamomile left, and Glóin brought us some mint the other week. Of course there is always the ordinary stuff too.” He looked at Bilbo hopefully.

Bilbo almost gaped – this burly Son of Durin drank _tea?_ He couldn’t stop the smile that spread over his features. “I would _love_ a cup of tea,” he said earnestly. It had been far, far too long since he’d had a good cup of tea.

“Excellent,” Dori beamed, and bustled out.

There was a moment of silence after he left and Bilbo looked around at the room. He noticed a bookshelf full of books and stood to take a look. Ori looked pleased at Bilbo’s interest and began showing him the old tomes while Nori just looked bored, though his eyes softened with affection whenever he looked at Ori.

Soon enough Dori came back with the tea and handed Bilbo a cup of the steaming hot liquid. Bilbo felt his whole body relax with the first sip and he sighed, looking at Dori gratefully. “This is _perfect,_ thank you, Dori.”

Dori looked pleased and Bilbo felt that he and Dori could be very good friends indeed if the man appreciated tea as much as he seemed to. He mentioned the different blends they made back at home in the Shire; Dori’s eyes went so wide with longing that Bilbo promised to bring him some the next time he went back.

Bilbo spent perhaps half an hour more with the Risons and had just decided that they were all very nice indeed, though he was wary of Nori – he may be nice but he could still match Bilbo with his skill with a knife and that made him a potential threat – when suddenly they were interrupted by a knocking on the door and Balin poked his head around it.

“Bilbo?” he sounded almost apologetic and Bilbo reflexively tensed. “Thorin wants to see you.”

Bilbo let his muscles relax slightly, though he wasn’t sure that seeing an irritable and wounded Thorin wasn’t going to require him to have all his wits about him anyway. “I’ll come,” he nodded to the white-haired Son and stood, bidding the others goodbye for now. He joined Balin outside and followed him to Thorin’s chambers.

“I’m not sure what he’s going to say,” Balin said and he sounded worried. Bilbo smiled.

“I’m sure I can handle him,” he said lightly. “His Grumpiness won’t manage to scare me off, don’t worry.” Balin looked amused at that.

“I’ve no doubt you can,” he said and gestured to Thorin’s door. Bilbo rapped on the door before opening it and stepping inside. There were no windows in these underground chambers, much to Bilbo’s disappointment, so the room was lit not by the torches used in the halls but instead by soft gas laps. They smelt slightly and the wall by the lamp was a little sooty, but at least the room wasn’t dark. In fact it lit the room up quite nicely, falling on Thorin in an almost golden glow as he sat in the bed, glaring at Bilbo as he entered the room. Bilbo just managed to refrain from rolling his eyes at the sight, instead ignoring Thorin as he took a seat on the low stool by the foot of the bed. He regretted doing so immediately, as he was now looking up at Thorin rather than down, but it was too late now.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, sounding vaguely patronising but not really caring too much.

“Fine,” Thorin said, teeth gritted. “Thanks to you.” Bilbo marvelled at how he could make his thanks sound like an insult.

“I’m glad,” he replied coolly and he saw a brief flash of guilt on Thorin’s features before they once again returned to their habitual frown.

There was silence in the room for a few long moments, Bilbo not doing anything to make it any less awkward, instead watching Thorin squirm and enjoying every minute of it; finally Thorin looked at him, opened his mouth as if to say something before shutting it again. He frowned at his bed-sheets for a moment before looking back at Bilbo.

“I don’t trust you,” he said finally.

“I can see that,” Bilbo replied icily, bristling at the implication.

“ _But,_ ” Thorin continued sharply, glaring at Bilbo for his interruption. “I’m going to try. To trust you.”

Bilbo arched one eyebrow as he looked at Thorin, aware of what it cost the Son to say it. He couldn’t say how he’d behave were their positions reversed, but he decided to take pity on the other man and let it go. He couldn’t resist getting the last word, however.

“Well, I did save you,” he smirked. “It was no easy feat lugging you all the way back here.”

Thorin looked uncertain as to whether he wanted to scowl or laugh; the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly before it straightened, though his expression wasn’t as dark as it had been before. “Then I suppose I should be grateful for my most capable rescuer,” he said and Bilbo thought there was almost a lilt of amusement in his voice.

He raised an eyebrow archly. “Yes,” he said, meeting Thorin’s gaze, “you should.”

Neither broke eye contact, Bilbo’s eyebrow still raised as Thorin narrowed his eyes just slightly; Bilbo jumped and their gaze was interrupted by a knocking on the door as Dwalin entered the room.

“Oh,” he said, looking between the two. “Am I interrupting something?” His voice was definitely edged with amusement, Bilbo thought irritably. He stood up as Thorin gave a snort, brushing off his robe.

“Not at all,” he said primly; he levelled a stern glare at Dwalin before striding primly out of the room, leaving the two Sons to their own devices. Perhaps he’d see how Kíli was doing; he had a new face to imagine he was sticking his throwing knives into as he hit the targets.

***

Thorin was up and walking again the next day. He’d been fine before but Balin hadn’t wanted him to take any risks and he’d dutifully listened to his advisor, staying on bed rest no matter how much it riled him. But it was good to be up and towering over Baggins once again, not that it really changed the other man’s behaviour towards him. He couldn’t work out what it was about the man that grated on him so much, only that somehow he got under his skin and Thorin couldn’t ignore him as he would usually people he disliked.

Nori was sure that his Thieves would have information of some sort for them so when Thorin was up again, he broke his fast on a quick meal of bread and cold cured meats – Baggins, it appeared, had been up since dawn with his throwing knives – before fetching the Child and Nori and making their way to the Thieves’ base.

“They run from Bombur’s inn,” Nori explained to Bilbo as they travelled underground. “Bombur himself is allied with us but isn’t an assassin.” Thorin snorted softly at that. Eventually the tunnels ended and they travelled the rest of the way topside, slipping between groups and keeping invisible, until they reached a large tavern, even now sounds of laughter emanating from the building.

They entered the homely-looking building, the noise suddenly deafening; that was always a benefit to the Thieves’ running their business from a tavern, Thorin knew – over the noise in there their dealings wouldn’t be heard, and many of those who frequented taverns were hardly completely on the right side of the law themselves and wouldn’t risk grassing them off to the City Watch, lest their own clandestine activities be brought to light.

A large ginger man at the bar greeted them warmly and seemed chuffed to meet Bilbo – from what Thorin could gather from his conversation with Balin that morning, so had Dori and Ori; what was it about the Child that inspired such eagerness? – and introduced himself as Bombur.

He turned to Thorin as he pulled out mugs for their ale. “My brother said he’d be along in the next few days. There’s been too many guards aroun’ and not enough protectin’ for his liking. Said something’s goin’ on.”

“We’ll be glad to have him with us again,” Thorin assured him as he accepted his mug of icy cold ale. “Kíli especially,” he added a little ruefully, his mouth twitching upwards in a small smile. Bombur’s eyes crinkled as he grinned in agreement, murmuring a low “aye” as he did so.

When Bombur had handed out all their drinks and promised to bring them food in a little while, Nori led them to a back room which looked to be full of people playing a rather heated game of darts; at Nori’s entrance they all nodded and returned to their game while Nori settled himself leisurely in one of the worn leather booths, indicating for Thorin and Bilbo to follow suit.

“These are your Thieves?” Bilbo asked, glancing around him as he sat next to Nori, opposite Thorin.

“Indeed they are,” Nori grinned. “Like little birds, they hear everything. Nothing in this city is safe from my men.”

“Or ladies,” a voice said as a figure slipped into the booth next to Thorin.

“Or ladies,” Nori conceded. “Bilbo, this is Tauriel, one of my best listeners.”

“Make that _the_ best. We’ve met before,” she grinned at Thorin, who shuffled away slightly. He knew Tauriel all too well indeed. “Though I don’t know _you_ , but I think I’d like to,” she continued, smirking and looking Bilbo over in interest.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Bilbo introduced himself, returning Tauriel’s grin happily. Thorin tried to stifle his snort but was unsuccessful, as Tauriel turned to him again and nudged him with her elbow.

“What, are you jealous there’s finally someone else as attractive as you round here?” Thorin ignored both the comment and the jab she gave his ribs, not deigning to dignify it with a comment. Of course Bilbo Baggins was attractive, if one found baby seals ‘ _attractive’._ But he was glad Bilbo hadn’t revealed himself to be one of the Children; he had no doubt Tauriel would work it out eventually but the longer it took to get to that point the better.

“Watch it, Tauriel,” Nori said and she laughed, giving him a sly look and rolling her eyes. “What have you got for us? You sent a message saying you had news.”

“I do,” she said, reclining lazily into the seat. “And I don’t know what to make of it, but no doubt you will.” She waited until everyone’s attention was fully focused on her. “People are going missing. It’s mostly from the slums – Ered Luin and Lake-town especially – but there have been rumours about those in the Upper Circles going missing too. They just disappear, seen one day and gone the next.”

Thorin leaned forward slightly, shifting back again when he noticed Bilbo mirroring the movement opposite him.

“Children?” he asked. Tauriel shook her head.

“No children. All of them seem to be workmen, crafters, that sort of thing. And each of them is disappearing without a trace. The people in the slums are panicking; no one knows why they’re going or who’ll be next.”

“Workmen?” Bilbo asked curiously. “Surely that has something to do with why they’re being taken.”

Tauriel shrugged. “I assume so, but that’s not all. I’ve been hearing whispers that something’s wrong in the Citadel too – it seems not even Smaug’s loyal followers are safe. There are rumours that many of them are being dismissed, if not outright killed.”

“Where are these whispers coming from?” Nori asked sharply. “Trustworthy sources?”

“Servants in their households,” Tauriel replied. “I’ve kept up quite a network of contacts since you took me on, Nori,” she said archly and tossed her hair, brighter than Nori’s coppery tones and more like fire, back over her shoulder. Thorin saw Bilbo’s look of interest at her words but he said nothing, to Thorin’s relief; Tauriel could be prickly about her past.

Nori sat back slowly, nodding thoughtfully and pulling at his lip. “Thank you, Tauriel. Anything else?” She shook her head. “I need you to find out where they’ve been taken. Get a couple of the lads on the job too, but I need you to do that for me, Tau.”

She smirked in Nori’s direction and raised a hand to her forehead in a mock salute. “No problem, _boss.”_ She stood, her eyes flicking back to Bilbo again and she grinned. “Just be sure to bring this one with you next time; his face is so much nicer than yours,” she said, flicking her hair again in Nori’s direction as she turned to leave. Thorin felt annoyance and something else he couldn’t place surge up in him as he saw Bilbo’s embarrassed yet smug little smile at her words.

“Watch it, you,” Nori called to her back. “I can still take back your position here!”

“No you can’t,” she sang back, “Unless you want to start watching your back.”

She disappeared back into the main body of the tavern, leaving the three of them sitting there in silence, the sounds of the Thieves’ game of darts coming to a rowdy conclusion behind them the only noise between them. Nori was watching her leave, shaking his head, a small smile on his face. Thorin broke the silence first.

“Balin needs to hear of this. He’ll know what to make of it.”

Before they could stand and leave, however, Bombur came bustling in with a large tray of food which he set down on the table before them. “The young miss said you’d be needing something to eat,” he said as he put down the cutlery. “Said you must be quite tired out from all your talking today.” Bombur’s grin was far too amused for Thorin’s liking but he let it go. Tauriel was cheeky and too smart for her own good, but one of Nori’s best and if she could find where the missing people were then she could make all the jibes she liked. And the food was a welcome development, if Thorin was honest, after his meagre breakfast that morning.

Bilbo too looked pleased at the sight of the food – Thorin was learning to get used to being astounded at how much the man could put away in one sitting – and they tucked in to the meal of roast meats and warm breads and stew. Bilbo finished first and watched the game of darts that had started up again as they ate in interest. Thorin could practically see his fingers twitching.

“You can join ‘em,” Nori said, nodding at the group of Thieves gathered around the dart board. “They’ve all played each other a hundred times over. They’re probably gasping for some new competition.”

Bilbo grinned and stood, strolling over to join the men. He was dwarfed by most of them, which Thorin found rather amusing, and found his mouth twitching at the sight of the small man surrounded by an eager group of lean, muscled Thieves all practically falling over each other to hand him a dart. His lips curled into a smile properly when Bilbo aimed the dart and hit it right on target. He hadn’t forgotten Bilbo’s skill with his own poisoned darts.

“He’s nice,” Nori’s voice filtered in through the cheers and groans from the dart board and Thorin felt his face darken like the sky in a sudden summer storm. He looked at Nori, studying him to see if there was any hidden message in his words.

“He’s irritating.” It felt like everyone was trying to tell him something, if the conversations he’d had with Dwalin and the messages Dís had been sending him were any indication (his sister found it incredibly humorous that he’d been ‘rescued’ by the Child, a man a good head shorter than him).

“Maybe so, but don’t you like him?”

“He’s one of the Children,” Thorin said staunchly. “I will not trust him until he’s proven that we can.”

“Ah, but that’s not the same thing,” Nori said sharply, his voice practically dripping with mirth. “Liking and trusting are two different things. You avoided the question, Master Oakenshield.”

“Remember your place, Pundurûn,” Thorin growled low. “He’s an ally in this venture and nothing more. I’d like to have as little to do with him as possible.”

“I don’t think _he’s_ very little,” Nori said seriously, though the spark in his eye spoke of his amusement. “Have you seen the size of his feet?”

Thorin felt a blush working itself up his neck and he stood before it made its way to his face. “We’re leaving. Come on.” He turned to call Bilbo over but stopped short before turning to Nori with an angry glare, the man before him suddenly wary of the tight line of Thorin’s mouth.

Bilbo was nowhere to be seen.

***

Making his way through the busy streets, Bilbo reflected that slipping away from Thorin and Nori probably wasn’t the best way to prove to Thorin that he could be trusted, and instead would only, in Thorin’s mind, be the final proof that Bilbo wasn’t trustworthy. But he’d needed to be alone for this; there were some things Bilbo would not reveal to the Sons just because they were allies, and temporary ones at that. He had no doubt that the Sons kept plenty of secrets from him too.

He reached the Greenwood district and the Temple of Varda and quickly scaled the white walls after ascertaining there was no one around to see him do so. The roof of the Starkindler’s temple was made up of a series of triangular stacks, creating many small nooks and crannies perfect for the use of wall-climbing Children of Yavanna. The temple was a landmark in the area and these little hiding places often served as a deposition point for letters and parcels for those Children working in the city for extended periods.

Sure enough, as Bilbo stepped lightly over the silver-grey roof tiles, he found a letter weighted down by a heavy stone, Lobelia’s tidy scrawl on the front saying simply _‘_ L-W’. _Luck-Wearer_ – his codename, given in a moment of tomfoolery during his younger days when he’d beaten one of his Took cousins at darts by the grace of one lucky shot. It had stuck, and he supposed there were worse things to be called.

_Things are fine here; I hope the others are treating you well. Gamgee has your spare robes. Everyone looks forward to hearing from you again soon, or even seeing you._

_Please be careful._

Bilbo gave a small smile to himself as he read Lobelia’s words, brisk and abstract enough that it would be of little interest to anyone other than Bilbo. Her parting line made his heart swell a little; Lobelia had started her assassin training later than most and struggled more, but under Bilbo’s careful guidance she’d positively bloomed and was – Bilbo hoped – set to become Master Assassin after him (after all, none could beat her at Spoon-slipping). She’d been as a daughter to him and it warmed him to hear her concern for him expressed even across three words on a page.

He tucked the letter in one of the many inside pockets in his robes and climbed back down to the ground, making his way to Hamfast’s pub back in Erebor, the same one where the truce between Children and Sons had been made. Once he’d retrieved his package with his robes in it and left a letter for Lobelia with Hamfast, he considered what to do now. He needed to get back to the Sons’ hideout but being without a Son meant he had no way to access the tunnels. He’d seen Thorin fiddling with numerous keys to unlock the secret doors every time they’d surfaced.

Which left him two options: return to Bombur’s inn and see if Thorin and Nori were still there, or head to the Pink Sapphire and hope Dís didn’t ask too many questions about why he was alone. Somehow he found that possibility rather remote.

If he knew anything about Thorin, he knew that the Son would most likely think the worst and assume that he was double-crossing them and would have hurried back to the base to tell everyone of his supposed treachery, so he doubted that he’d be back at Bombur’s. Nori might, however; Bilbo got along quite well with him all things considered, and if he was Thorin he’d have left someone there just in case he came back. He decided to risk it and headed back to Bombur’s.

He approached carefully; he was only going to peek in through the door to see of the copper-haired man was there but before he could do so he felt something at his side. He froze and slowly straightened, looking around and finding Nori there, leaning against the wall casually and grinning at him, his knife cold even through the robes Bilbo wore.

“Thorin didn’t think ya’d come back,” Nori said, removing the knife and thoughtlessly picking under his nails with it.

“Thorin knows nothing,” Bilbo retorted, stepping back. “I’m not selling you out, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Never said I did,” Nori said, his grin only growing wider. “But _Thorin_ might do. I assume you want to get back to head-quarters.” Bilbo nodded and Nori pushed himself up off the wall. “Come with me then.”

“You’re not suspicious?” Bilbo asked curiously. He had disappeared on them, after all.

“Oh, of course I am,” Nori replied as he led Bilbo around to one of the back streets. “But we’re allowed our secrets, you’re allowed yours. And anyway, if you _were_ double-crossing us, you wouldn’t live long enough to regret it.” The smile he flashed Bilbo then showed slightly too many teeth to be reassuring. He found one of the secret doors and unlocked it, pushing it open for Bilbo and pointing him in the right direction.

“I’ll see you this evening,” he said and waited for Bilbo to enter; once he was in the door shut behind him and he heard the click of the lock behind him. He shivered; if he didn’t know better it felt almost like walking into a trap. Pushing away those thoughts he set off in the direction Nori had indicated, going slowly to avoid any rubble or holes which might be littering the floor. It was a straight tunnel, mercifully, so he didn’t have to question which direction he was going, and he carried on walking for a while; it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes but it felt like an age, in this cool dark so different from the Shire. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to having so much _stone_ about him rather than polished wood and warm papers on the walls, little round windows letting in the sun. He understood the Sons’ need for secrecy, but it didn’t make it any more enjoyable for him.

Suddenly he saw a corner up ahead, another tunnel branching off the one he was currently following. He reached it and hesitated, unsure – Nori hadn’t said anything about turning any corners – and then soundly cursed himself when something appeared out of that second tunnel and pushed him against the wall, the cold of a knife against his throat. There’d been too many blades drawn at him today.

His first thought was that it had been a trap all along, that the Sons were a paranoid lot and he should never have had anything to do with them; but then he recognised the low growl that sounded and echoed in the tunnel as the person spoke.

“Who’s your _contractor_?” Thorin said into Bilbo’s air, the timbre of his voice so low that Bilbo had to physically repress his shiver. “ _Who’s paying you?”_ as he spoke those words the knife pressed deeper against Bilbo’s throat and he just managed a little laugh before he stopped, his windpipe constricted. He could have reached for his own knives – really, there was nothing stopping him and Thorin should have known that – but he didn’t.

“What makes you think I’m spying?” he asked, his voice husky from where he struggled to draw breath. Thorin was incredibly close; Bilbo could feel the heat of him even through their multiple layers of robes.

“Don’t play games with me,” Thorin growled warningly. Bilbo’s eyes were used to the dark now and he saw the scowl and look of concentration on his face as he towered above Bilbo. If it weren’t for the knife at Bilbo’s throat, their position could almost be called intimate; the thought made him smirk and he just managed to refrain from laughing out loud at the thought.

“Don’t you wish I was,” Bilbo said, his voice dripping with mirth. Thorin’s glower intensified and he pressed closer, ignoring Bilbo’s ragged breath as the flat of the knife pressed so close it constricted his breathing.

“I will kill you if you’re spying,” he said, voice dangerously low and strangely seductive, in other circumstances. “The Code won’t protect you then.”

Bilbo smirked and managed to slip his own knife out, pressing it to the inside of Thorin’s leg, raising an eyebrow at Thorin as the Son’s eyes widened at the feel.

“Oh look,” Bilbo said in mock surprise. “We’ve drawn blades at one another. I would tell you to mind I don’t chop it off...” he pressed the blade in closer and higher, smothering a smirk as Thorin’s breath hitched,  and looked up again at the Son, all innocence. “But I don’t think you’ve got much to lose.”

Thorin’s expression contorted darkly, his eyes not leaving Bilbo’s for a good minute before he released him, pushing back off the wall and sheathing his blade; Bilbo did so too but in a much more pronounced manner.

“You do know that the Children don’t just use knives,” he said mildly as he straightened his robes, pleased at how uncomfortable Thorin looked.

“Yes, you have your darts and your poisons. What of it?” Thorin asked through gritted teeth and Bilbo didn’t answer immediately, enjoying the sight of Thorin Oakenshield so discomfited.

“Not all poisons are fatal,” he said simply and began walking in the direction he’d been headed in before, leaving Thorin behind. “In fact in small doses most are just...an inconvenience.” He turned to face Thorin, who was following him; the Son looked so annoyed Bilbo almost couldn’t stop the bubble of laughter rising in his throat.

“Are you threatening me?” Thorin demanded, a heavy hand landing on Bilbo’s shoulder, keeping him pinned in place.

“Depends what counts as _threatening_ to you, Oakenshield,” he said bitingly, shrugging Thorin’s hand off. “ _Informing,_ yes, and if you find that information threatening then that’s your problem. If I was threatening you my knife would be at your throat.” Before Thorin could say anything or move Bilbo had twisted round so that he was behind the Son, reaching around him so his hands – knife free – were at his throat. He slid a hand slowly and firmly down to Thorin’s side, noting the way the man’s breath hitched. Thorin’s back was so solid against him. “Another knife at your side, pressing in just _here_ ,” he whispered, his fingers pushing into Thorin’s skin through the cloth of the robes, Thorin stock still in front of him. Bilbo could feel the tension thrumming through the Son’s body, taut as a bowstring. “ _That_ would be threatening you.” Thorin was breathing heavily as Bilbo slipped back around to continue walking. “Have you learned the difference yet?” he called back wryly.

Thorin said nothing but Bilbo could feel the anger rolling off him in waves, his hot glare following him as they walked the rest of the way to the underground base.

***

“Fuck it all,” Thorin snarled as he paced up and down the office. “I can’t do this, Balin, I can’t work with him.”

“You have to,” Balin said, his tone brooking no argument as he stood behind the desk, a solid and calm presence as he watched Thorin’s frenzied pacing. “You don’t have a choice, Thorin. Arda needs to be rid of Smaug and the only way we can do this is with his help.”

“But I can’t work with him!” Thorin exploded, clenching his fists at his side.

“Why?” Balin demanded. “Why can’t you work with him?”

“Because he’s– ” Thorin stopped, trying to clear his thoughts. Somehow he didn’t want to tell Balin about how Bilbo Baggins always seemed to get one up on him every time they spoke. “I can’t trust him.”

“You think he trusts us any more than we do him?” Balin asked in exasperation, his beard trembling in his agitation at Thorin. “And he’s the one separated from the rest of his Order! Thorin, I don’t know what you’ve got against him but so help me, you’ll learn to get along with him enough to do your job!”

Thorin hadn’t seen Balin this annoyed in a long time. “You can’t tell me what to do,” he muttered churlishly.

“You may be Head of this Order but you can be unmade if you carry on like this, Thorin Oakenshield,” was Balin’s acidic reply.

Thorin turned on his heel and stormed out, retreating to his chamber where he continued to pace like a caged animal. There was something about Bilbo that just rubbed him the wrong way, something about him that Thorin couldn’t stand but at the same time intrigued him. He couldn’t work out how the seemingly soft little man with his round face and friendly smile had become one of the most deadly assassins in Arda, and increasingly he found himself _wanting_ to know. His cheeks flushed as he remembered their encounter in the tunnels; being so close that he could feel his warmth, their breathing echoing the only sound–

He shut his eyes against the memory. He’d be lying if he said that Bilbo wasn’t attractive, but that didn’t mean _he_ found him attractive. In fact he found the man irritating enough that any potential attraction he might feel was mitigated by the prickling of annoyance every time he saw him. At least, that’s what he was telling himself.

If he had the choice he’d have nothing more to do with Bilbo Baggins, but Mahal had seen fit to inflict his presence upon him. He had, as Balin said, no choice but to get used to him.

That evening found him reluctantly making his way to dinner, having avoided everyone by hiding in his room. From the sound of it everyone else was already there – he could hear Kíli’s high little voice and Dori’s mothering clucks, which meant Nori and Ori were there as well. He heard Dwalin’s full-bodied chuckle and Balin’s dry tones, and in a moment of quiet he identified a new voice – cheerful with a rough brogue to it, he recognised the voice of Bofur Urson, which meant Bifur was here too. It seemed no one had seen fit to let Thorin know that they’d arrived, despite the fact he was in charge here.

He entered the room and was only slightly disconcerted when a momentary hush fell, all except for the two figures in the corner, who appeared to be getting along very well indeed. _Too_ well.

“Bofur,” he said and suddenly everyone began talking again, as if to hide the fact that they were in fact listening intently to every word that was about to be said. Bofur glanced up at his name being called and instantly straightened, touching a fist to his heart in greeting.

“Mister Oakenshield, sir,” he said quickly, and Thorin walked over to him.

“I see you’ve met Master Baggins,” he said, his gaze shifting to Bilbo, who just raised an eyebrow in his direction, looking completely unconcerned. It riled him.

“Yes...” Bofur said, smiling at Bilbo who returned it, fairly dazzling Thorin with its brightness. He wondered how Bofur had managed to win him over, but then he realised that nearly every single person in this room got along with Bilbo better than he did.

“Let’s hope he doesn’t take as much offence at your presence as he does mine,” he said, meeting Bilbo’s gaze momentarily before turning away.

“Let’s not forget why I took offence,” Bilbo’s voice sounded innocently behind him in the silence and he turned, meeting those eyes again but now they held a cold, amused glint. Thorin said nothing and turned on his heel, looking to Balin and motioning that they should talk.

Quickly everyone resumed talking and Thorin ignored the prickling heat of his embarrassment. Soon dinner was ready and they sat, Thorin taking his customary seat at the head of the table, though he was perturbed to find that Bilbo had been placed to his left as befit his status as guest.

Thorin found himself at turns completely exasperated at the Child – he spent a good few minutes messing with his napkins and cutlery – and at others wanting to wring his neck. Barbed comments and hardly veiled insults were bandied back and forth between them constantly, making triumph flare through his veins one minute and embarrassment burn hot in his belly the next while the rest of the Sons looked on, watching them steadily goad each other on.

At one point during a particularly awkward silence, Kíli piped up to ask how many people Bilbo had killed.

“A lot,” Bilbo replied smoothly. “Killed many, and gelded a good many more.” Thorin felt his eyes on him and stood, his chair scraping back on the flagstones with a screech. That comment cut too close to the bone, after their encounter in the tunnels, and he couldn’t bear to stay a moment longer.

“Excuse me,” he said stiffly, and without looking at Bilbo he strode from the room and only just managed to resist slamming the door behind him. Mahal, he hated this Child with a _passion._

Eventually, however, the fires of embarrassment died down and he’d licked his wounds in the privacy of his chamber, and he knew he had to apologise. He’d said things to Bilbo he knew had been...unjust and uncalled for. He had to right things between them.

Thorin waited until the fires were burning low and everyone had gone to bed before going to Bilbo’s chamber and knocking softly. The door was pulled open and Thorin saw the surprise on Bilbo’s face as he registered who it was before it hardened to a stony expression.

“Thorin,” he greeted with a nod.

“Were you expecting someone else?” Thorin asked, Bofur and the way he and Bilbo had laughed throughout dinner briefly flashing through his mind.

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business,” Bilbo said hotly, stepping back as if to close the door, but Thorin placed a heavy boot in the way to stop him from doing so.

“I didn’t mean – I didn’t come here to insult you further,” he said, hands out in a placating gesture.

“You’re not doing a very good job of that,” Bilbo said, still trying to shut the door on Thorin’s foot and it was beginning to hurt, all truth told. Bilbo wasn’t holding back at all and it was only through sheer willpower that Thorin managed not to let it show on his face.

“I came to apologise,” he said. “Add that to the list of things I must apologise for.” Bilbo looked at him suspiciously then but released his hold on the door, letting it open enough for Thorin to step inside. The door shut after him and Bilbo gestured for him to take a seat by the fire, now banked for the night and lighting the room with a soft orange glow supplemented by one oil lamp by the bed.

Now Thorin could see him fully he saw Bilbo had removed his belt and cloak and was wearing a pale linen shirt, the top button undone, tucked into brown breeches. He still had a dagger in his belt, however, and Thorin had no doubt that he was just as deadly even in his relative state of undress. In the firelight his hair seemed like molten bronze.

Bilbo had sat himself on the edge of his bed and was looking at Thorin expectantly. The Son cleared his throat and glanced at the fire. The pride that kept him from seeking help from others also kept him from apologising. He’d been taught since childhood that he was a Durin, even before he was a Son, and the Durins didn’t apologise. If they sought, they got; they ordered, it was done; no one questioned them.

But that was before Smaug and the other Templars came, knocking them and their name into the dirt. Now he and Dís were the only Durins left and they lived a life of secrecy. The Durin name did them no good now, so he swallowed his pride and spoke.

“I am sorry,” he said eventually, not looking at Bilbo until the pride reared its head again and he looked up, meeting Bilbo’s amused gaze with his own sharp one, back straight and head held high. Perhaps being a Durin gave him no power now, but it was still a part of him. “I’m sorry for the things I’ve said to you, and for not trusting you even after I gave you my word I would do so.”

Bilbo seemed to smile then, but it was so brief Thorin thought it could have been a trick of the firelight. “You’re not the only one at fault, Master Oakenshield,” he said smoothly and Thorin couldn’t work out if he was being completely sincere or not. “I’ve been quick to judge and quick to anger, and I apologise for it.”

Thorin nodded, looking away from the Child then; his eyes were glittering dangerously in the dying light from the fire and Thorin couldn’t help the fact he became ever more intrigued by him, how one who looked as if he belonged with books and a fire and a comfortable home came to be here, in the hideout of the Sons of Durin and deadly accurate with a knife.

“Do you trust us?” he asked suddenly, wanting to know the answer – it was unlikely, he knew, but he still wanted to hear it from Bilbo’s mouth.

“No,” Bilbo said softly. “I don’t trust that you won’t go back on your promise. I don’t trust that this whole venture will succeed. But I trust that you’re not going to try and kill me when my back is turned.”

Thorin looked at him in surprise then. “How can you trust that?”

Bilbo gave his small little smirk. “Why, are you going to?” he asked lightly. Then his face turned serious. “I’ve known danger before. I’m not afraid of it. Gandalf... I don’t trust him not to put me in danger, but he’d never knowingly put my life in someone else’s hands. He wouldn’t have recruited me to help you unless he knew your intentions were good.”

“The Wizard knows everything,” Thorin said, his own mouth pulling up at the corners and Bilbo gave a small chuckle.

“That he does. He could always tell when I was lying, you know – one year he came for my birthday party and he just _knew_ that my cousins and I had been at the food already... He and my mother were the only ones I could never fool.”

“It’s no surprise that he earned himself the name of Wizard,” Thorin said, smiling slightly and feeling more at ease in Bilbo’s company than he ever had.

“How did you earn the title of Oakenshield?” Bilbo asked softly and Thorin’s throat tightened a little; he glanced away from Bilbo’s inquisitive gaze and into the flames. “You use the name but none know its roots.”

Thorin said nothing for a long while, his throat closing up. Fifteen years on and he still missed his family as much as the day they’d been taken from him. Whoever said grief lessened with time was lying; perhaps it had dulled to a background ache, like a bruise gone yellow, but if he gave thought to it it would rip him apart.

“It was a long time ago,” he said finally. “When I was a different man. It’s of no matter.” Bilbo looked as if he wanted to press him but Thorin was grateful that he didn’t, instead pressing his lips together as if to stop the words escaping.

Thorin stood, suddenly weary, and headed to the door. “I’ve taken up enough of your time now, Master Baggins. Sleep well,” he said pulling open the door.

He was just about to step through the doorway when he heard Bilbo speak from behind him.

“If we get Smaug, will you let the anger go?” he asked quietly and Thorin froze. “It’s eating you up from the inside, and one day you’ll lose yourself to it.”

“What do you know of anger?” Thorin asked shortly as he turned to look at Bilbo. The Child just smiled sadly and pressed a hand to his left arm, where – covered by his shirt sleeve – Thorin remembered seeing the angry mottling of a burn.

“I know grief and anger as well as anybody. I’ve seen what it can do.” Thorin held his gaze for what couldn’t have been more than mere moments but which felt like they lasted hours, until Bilbo gave a sad smile. “Goodnight, Thorin.”

Thorin turned again and shut the door behind him, returning to his chamber. He lay in bed trying to sleep, his mind whirling and more often than not returning to linger on Bilbo Baggins.

***

They heard nothing from Tauriel for four days, during which Bilbo continued to help Kíli with his archery (and Thorin had to admit that the lad was improving and no doubt about it) and Thorin tried to avoid talking to the man, the conflicting emotions inside him making him feel uncertain. Thorin Oakenshield hated being anything less than absolutely certain.

Aside from petty dislike born of wounded pride, Thorin found Bilbo intriguing and interesting no matter how hard he tried to quash it; he was irritating with his fussy mannerisms and light laughter that seemed to permeate everywhere. He seemed completely unruffled by the tense atmosphere that had settled over the Company as they waited for news; it wasn’t that it was a rare occasion – quite the contrary – but never had quite so much rested on the news. This could be the first step towards freeing Arda from Smaug – a baby step, but one all the same.

Thorin escaped to visit Dís and Fíli on third day, needing to get away from Balin’s pointed looks in his direction after his outburst and everyone else’s fascination with Bilbo. Every time he visited his sister and niece he was amazed at how much older Fíli seemed, how much she seemed to grow. She had suffered more than some for her young years, and he supposed living amongst women of the world was a part of it.

Dís was of course no help, wanting to know all about the Child and whether he and Thorin had had a civil conversation yet – and he was quick to assure her that they _had,_ (though he didn’t tell her that it had come as a result of his apologising).

He returned late that evening, having had supper with Dís and Fíli, when everyone else had also had their evening meal and most were doing their own thing. He found the main room occupied by Kíli by the fire with his wooden soldiers, Bilbo and Bofur sitting on two of the chairs that flanked the fireplace and Ori listening in with interest from his place at the table, inks and quills and scattered papers before him.

They all looked up as Thorin entered the room, making him feel self-conscious, where usually he would have expected and relished it. Bilbo Baggins’ presence was a definite spanner in the works in how the company was functioning as a group.

He nodded in Bilbo’s direction as he came to a stop, his cloak swishing then pooling around his feet, and was pleased to note that Bilbo returned the gesture, albeit with an eyebrow slightly raised. Bofur and Ori did the same, touching a fist to their hearts before returning to sitting and, in Ori’s case, writing. Kíli grinned widely at him.

“Good evening,” Bilbo finally said. “Balin’s in his study, if you want to see him.”

Thorin had actually been meaning to speak to him, but Bilbo’s presumption – his _correct_ presumption – made Thorin want to prove him wrong, so instead he reached up to unclasp his cloak, letting the heavy material swing around his body until it was draped over an arm; he moved over to the last empty chair before the fire, directly opposite Bilbo, and settled himself into it.

“I came to speak to you, actually,” he said.

Bilbo’s gaze sharpened and he smiled. “Oh?”

“Indeed.”

Thorin looked away at the movement to his left and registered Bofur getting up. He said something about checking on his cousin before leaving the room. Kíli seemed to have decided to join Ori at the table, watching the inventor’s furious scribblings. In truth Ori was a scribe, inventor and architect in one, having been trained only by the best, but his designs were always impressive.

He and Bilbo were left alone by the fire, Bilbo looking mildly amused. That seemed to be his default expression whenever Thorin was concerned, apart from when he was mildly irritated.

“I trust your sister and niece are well?” Bilbo asked.

“Very, thank you,” Thorin answered, settling deeper into the chair and crossing one leg over the other. “Though Fíli was disappointed I hadn’t thought to bring you along.”

“I’ve no doubt that would quite have defeated the purpose of your trip there,” Bilbo said, a small grin spreading over his face as he watched Thorin closely. Thorin tried to protest but Bilbo waved it away. “I’ll be as glad as you once this waiting game is over, I don’t deny it. You move like a caged bear when you’ve nothing to do.”

Thorin said nothing, merely shrugged his shoulders in a non-committal answer. He didn’t know what to say in return. “I shouldn’t think it will be too much longer until Tauriel brings us news.”

“It’s alright,” Bilbo said cheerfully, pulling a pipe out of one of his multiple pockets and chewing on the end, though he didn’t light it. He looked at the bowl almost sorrowfully.  “I’ve been on stake-outs that have lasted longer than this. In winter too – it was one of my least pleasant missions, I’ll tell you that for nothing.”

“What were you doing tailing people in the middle of winter?” Thorin couldn’t help but ask, his interest piqued again. Bilbo gave his small secretive smile.

“We were looking to find the leader of one of the groups who terrorised parts of the Old Forest, some years ago now. They were posing a threat to us, so we eliminated them. You probably won’t have heard anything about it.” Thorin had to admit that he hadn’t. Bilbo looked into the fire thoughtfully, his fingers tapping gently on the side of the chair. They were an archer’s hands, not like Thorin’s own, which were best gripped around a sword hilt.

“I once trailed a man from here to Beleriand,” he said and Bilbo’s eyes widened a little.

“As far as that?”

Thorin nodded, feeling a surge of triumph at having at least one feat which impressed the Child. He couldn’t stop his smile at that and Bilbo saw it, a smile of his own tugging at his lips. “Go on then. Tell all.”

Thorin’s smile grew at that and he felt relieved that they weren’t biting each other’s heads off. It was tiring work always being on edge around Bilbo Baggins. He’d quite forgotten they weren’t alone in the room with only the softly crackling fire for company, and had just opened his mouth to tell the story when a small bang sounded and they both whipped around to see a pool of black ink steadily spreading across the table, Kíli looking apologetic and Ori just bemused, if a little pink at being remembered as if he were some spying child.

“I think it’s a story best told another day,” he said instead, shooting Bilbo a wry look as he got up to find some cloths to soak up the ink with. It’d be a devil to get out again, but at least his mother’s oak table would be salvaged.

***

Tauriel arrived during breakfast the next day. Bilbo had just settled down into his chair at the table, ignoring Thorin’s snort as he laid a napkin over his lap, and was just getting ready to dig in when there was a bit of a commotion from outside and Tauriel came rushing in.

Nori and Thorin were immediately on their feet but Bilbo stayed sitting, watching her closely. She had a slight bruise on her cheek and she was covered in dirt and dust, but her eyes were bright with triumph.

“We found where they’re taking the workers,” she said, grinning, and both Bilbo and Thorin stood a little straighter.

“Let’s go and discuss this,” Balin said then, standing up himself and Bilbo followed suit, sighing as he left his plate of food. He grabbed his slice of toast as he followed the others out of the room, however – he didn’t know when he’d next be able to eat, after all.

They congregated around the map in Balin’s study and Tauriel pressed a finger to a spot in the Greenwood district. “Here,” she said. “There’s some kind of underground hideout they’re being taken to but we couldn’t get in. There are guards posted there day and night and probably all sorts of other booby traps; we couldn’t find another way in. The only way we found was through a grate in the ruins.” She glanced at Thorin and Bilbo. “I thought you would have a better chance.”

“Did you see who was taking them?” Balin asked, Tauriel’s green gaze flicking back to him. She shook her head.

“I didn’t recognise any of them, no,” she said, before reaching into her pocket and drawing out a piece of grey fabric, a crude eye stitched on roughly in charcoal coloured thread. “This was on their jerkins, though.”

“How’d you get hold of that?” Nori asked in some surprise. Tauriel looked shifty.

“Girion,” she muttered. “He’s not all talk and no trousers, it seems – he caught this big brute of a guy and knocked him out cold in a matter of moments. Do you know the sigil?” she asked, looking at Thorin. Bilbo did the same; Thorin was leaning over the map and fabric sigil, examining them closely with a frown on his face (which Bilbo found to be a rather unfortunate thing, after he’d seen how much a smile did for him).

He shook his head at Tauriel’s question though, frown deepening. “I can’t place it, though I feel like I should know. But no, I don’t know who this group are.”

“Whoever they are, their hideout is too close to the Citadel for my liking,” Bilbo spoke up eventually. “Does it mean what they’re doing has been sanctioned by Smaug or his pets? If that’s the case, we could be walking into a death trap.”

Silence fell over them as they considered this and Bilbo tapped a finger against his cheek as he looked down at the map. “Then again, I don’t suppose we’ve really got much choice.” His eyes met Thorin’s as the Son looked at him in a moment of understanding. As the leaders of their Orders, while they could send others in their place, none would respect them if they did.

Thorin gave a short nod before looking back down at the map, his fingers reaching out to touch the faded grey material of the strange sigil.

“You don’t have to go,” Balin said. “This could be nothing to do with Smaug and just present an unnecessary risk.”

“Balin,” Thorin said, smiling gently at the older Son. “You know that this is linked to Smaug in some way, even if not expressly; he’s let the city go to rot and things like this would never have happened before. It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Balin gave a small nod and Thorin straightened, pushing himself up off the desk. “Can your Thieves keep tabs on the entrance for another few days?” he asked Nori and the copper haired Thief nodded. Thorin met Bilbo’s eyes again, an eyebrow raised, and Bilbo felt the thrill of an impending mission flicker in his veins. Yes, it would be dangerous and yes, he’d have to suffer Thorin’s company, but he couldn’t suppress the anticipation of having a new job to do.

“May I have some time to go back to the Shire before we attempt to break in?” he asked the room at large. Thorin didn’t answer so he looked to Balin, whose gaze flicked to Thorin hesitantly before he agreed. Thorin left the room then and Bilbo didn’t see him again before he left, Dwalin accompanying him out of the tunnels. The gruff man had warmed to him slightly in that he didn’t growl like a bear whenever Bilbo approached and the glares weren’t quite so black as before; Bilbo laboured under no illusions that he liked him but it was reassuring to know the tattooed Son no longer looked as if he wanted to run his sword through him right there and then.

“Make sure you rest,” he said gruffly to Bilbo as the Child was leaving the underground network, surfacing near Gondor. Bilbo nodded, oddly touched, and hurried away. He could almost smell the fields of the Shire and the sweet scent of the apple blossom, he was so pleased to be heading home. He’d have the rest of today and the next day off before returning to Erebor and attempting to infiltrate the hideout where the workers were being taken.

The sun was just reaching its zenith as he left the tree cover of the Old Forest, the smell of the leaves and damp soil a comfort after so long spent in the dusty, dirty city surrounded by sewers and stagnant pools of water in the road. Nothing compared to the gently bubbling brooks and soft green hills of the Shire.

His heart swelled when he saw the round doors of the Children’s _smials,_ Bag End’s smart green one a most welcome sight. Lobelia’s face when she saw him was priceless and he returned her fierce hug tightly.

“Bilbo!” she laughed as she finally released him. “What are you doing here? Gandalf told us you’d be staying in the city! Did the alliance fall through?” she asked, her face suddenly falling and Bilbo hastened to reassure her.

“Not at all, my dear,” he smiled. “I managed to get away for a few days to check up on everyone, that’s all.” He said nothing of the mission he’d be on soon; danger was a part of their everyday lives and there was no point in making Lobelia worry more than she doubtlessly already was. “How’ve you been managing?”

As it turned out, Bilbo had been right when he’d predicted the Children would thrive under Lobelia. She was positively blooming in her position as Acting Head of the Children of Yavanna, acting in Bilbo’s place, and the Order was doing well.

“And how are Prim and Drogo doing?” he asked a little hesitantly. His cousins were not assassins but both were skilled with herbs and potions, and Primula was one of the best apothecaries in the Shire.

Lobelia smiled, noting the tentativeness of the query. “They’re doing just fine,” she said. “Frodo’s well too, though Prim says he’s been asking for you recently.”

Bilbo’s heart warmed to hear that and he stood, suddenly impatient to see them. Lobelia merely gave another small smile as he got up and took his leave. He worried for Prim and Drogo, both gentle souls with no desire for the life most of their relatives led and he was determined to keep things that way. He’d chosen this life, it was true, but only when his hand had been forced.

Primula and Drogo were as surprised and pleased as Lobelia to see him, and little Frodo nearly bowled him over off his feet, he came hurtling down the corridor of their _smial_ so fast. They were accordingly worried about his mission and the fact he wasn’t in the Shire – no amount of assurances could change that – but Prim also couldn’t hide her interest. She was born a Brandybuck, after all, and while she had no wish to join in with the Children’s darker aspects she was intrigued by the Sons. After all, Bilbo was the first Child to have dealings with the Sons of Durin that weren’t taunts or scuffles in the back alleys.

“What are they like?” Prim asked as she handed Bilbo a teacup. “Are they as awful as all the lads’ stories make out?”

“Not really, no,” he said, grinning. He thought of cheerful Bofur, sweet Ori, tricky Nori and wise old Balin; surprisingly kind Dori, little Kíli, shrewd Fíli and Dís, sharp as a knife and quick to boot. His lip curled as he thought of Thorin. “With exceptions,” he added, and Prim’s eyes widened in interest.

“What of this Thorin Oakenshield?” Drogo put in as Frodo climbed into Bilbo’s lap. “I’ve heard he’s a hard man and even harder to get along with.”

Bilbo scoffed a little, not bothering to hide his derision. “An understatement,” he told them. “He’s the most difficult man to get along with I’ve ever come across, which is saying something. I swear sometimes I wish I could poke him with my knives, just to see how he likes being constantly needled...” He took a sip of tea before he ended up ranting. He didn’t want to think about Thorin Oakenshield, not here in his cousins’ parlour with his nephew on his lap. He didn’t really want to think about Thorin at all.

“But what’s he _like?”_ Prim insisted. “If anyone can get along with him it’s you, Bilbo. You managed old Aunt Dora.”

“Oh Prim, I don’t know!” he said, perhaps with a little more irritation than was necessary. “He’s proud and arrogant and rude, and that’s all you need to know.”

He was lying to himself, he knew, but he didn’t want to think on the warmth in Thorin’s eyes when he looked at his kin; the sacrifices he’d made for his people; the determination to do right by them...the scars and hurts he’d seen on his soul: Thorin might think he was a master of deception and keeping secrets, but Bilbo had read him like a book that night he’d come to apologise – it was his eyes. They revealed more than Thorin could ever know or want – that he was a bowed man but not yet broken (though Bilbo wasn’t sure how many more disappointments it would take before he caved), that he was afraid and uncertain (but Bilbo saw his courage too), that he was still a grieving man, never given true time to mourn and instead resorted to hiding the pain and hoping if he ignored it enough, it would go away. It never did, though; that Bilbo knew.

Prim’s gaze sharpened at that in a mixture of hurt at his abruptness and curiosity. With a sigh Bilbo set his teacup down and rubbed at his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, offering her a small smile. “I’m a little tired, that’s all.”

Her eyes widened in concern. “Do you need something to help you sleep? I can find you something.”

He shook his head in declination. “It’s alright. I don’t feel it’d be wise for me to be in an unnatural sleep, not while I’m…away. Who knows what might happen while I’m under?” He shot a wry smile at where Drogo sat nodding, looking thoughtful. “Better I’m awake than dead to the world. But thank you.”

“Not if you’re so tired you can’t keep your eyes open,” Prim said, looking distressed but she reluctantly sat back down, straightening her skirts.

The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly in the same manner and Bilbo was glad when no one pressed him about Thorin or the Sons, although Frodo was very interested in their weapons. He supposed swords and mechanical daggers were intriguing to those with no experience of them – he knew Thorin’s knife all too well, the feel of it biting, cold, into his neck.

Eventually evening started to draw in and he made his way back to his own _smial,_ which he shared with Lobelia. Before he left, however, Prim insisted on pressing a tiny vial of valerian essence into his hand and he didn’t have the heart to refuse it. If it would make her feel better, he’d take it.

He was glad when he could fall into his own bed that night, though he still couldn’t sleep and instead found himself pacing up and down long into the night, only managing to finally drift off as the first rays of the sun came up. He’d read a book, long ago, that spoke of lands so far north the sun hardly set and midnight could be bright as day. He remembered pictures and drawings of icy lands covered in permanent snows. He wondered if such places truly existed; if they did, he wondered if he’d ever see them.

His thoughts of such sights helped lull him to sleep, though what rest he managed to get could hardly be called refreshing. He woke up bleary-eyed and head sore, as tired as he was the evening before.

“Are you alright, Bilbo?” Lobelia asked when he made it down to breakfast. “I heard you pacing last night and you don’t look as if you’ve slept a wink.”

“I’m fine,” he tried to reassure her but Lobelia didn’t look placated by his attempt. She may be younger than him but Lobelia was shrewd and had known him a long time now. She could read him like a book.

“Bilbo,” she said firmly. “In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve only ever not slept when you’re worried about a mission. What is it?” Her voice gentled with those last words and Bilbo’s chest tightened a notch, before it eased and he sighed, long and hard.

“We’ve got an assignment,” he confirmed, playing with his toast. “I hope I’m making things out to be worse than they are, but...” His mother had always told him to trust his gut instinct, and it had always served him well before.

Lobelia reached across the worn oak table, warm fingers clutching his for a moment. “You’ll be alright,” she said. “You’re the best assassin I know. If anyone can escape danger, it’s you.” A small smile was quirking the corners of her lips upwards and Bilbo felt his own respond in kind. “Let’s walk by the brook,” Lobelia suggested, clearing Bilbo’s half-eaten breakfast away.

The day was pleasant, the late spring sunshine warm with a brisk breeze, and it was over far too quickly. All too soon, Bilbo was once more saying goodbye to the green haven of the Shire, leaving it for the dusty, crowded city.

Dusk was gathering as he made his way back towards the Old Forest, most of the flowers closed but for the scent of night stock strong in the air, the blooms favouring the dark as their time to come out. Bilbo was tempted to pick some and take them back to the hideout to brighten it up, but the thought of Thorin’s scorn and derision was enough to make Bilbo stop. He wouldn’t waste good flowers on the man.

There was a strange tightness in his chest as he walked away from his home and the people he cared for, slipping silently through the trees. He hoped to Yavanna that he’d over-estimated the danger that infiltrating this hideout might present, but if there was one lesson he’d learned it was that under-estimating one’s enemy could prove even more dangerous.

The city was still busy even as night drew in, but he was able to slip unseen through the streets to the secret entrance to the tunnels where Dwalin had said he should wait. But to his dismay, it wasn’t Dwalin waiting for him. It wasn’t Nori or even Dori or Balin.

It was Thorin who melted out of the shadows as he approached, and he looked – if it were possible – even more unhappy about being there than Bilbo.

“Now you’re back, we can tell you about our plans,” Thorin said stiffly as he unlocked the secret door, without even a ‘hello’ or an enquiry about his time in the Shire. Bilbo felt the familiar stirrings of annoyance begin to thrum through his veins at Thorin’s dismissive manner, as if he were there to be used and then disposed of.

“Your plans?” he asked through gritted teeth. “Which plans are these?”

“For infiltrating the hideout,” Thorin said briskly, his voice emotionless. Bilbo stopped short and Thorin didn’t even notice, carrying on walking for a few steps until he noticed Bilbo wasn’t beside him.

“You’ve made plans?” Bilbo asked, his voice hollow. “ _Without_ me?” Oh, that made his blood _boil._

“Of course we did, you were away,” Thorin said, inpatient. “Balin will go through it all with you.”

Bilbo made no move to re-join Thorin, even to indicate that he was appeased. Because he was not, not by any stretch of the imagination. “Am I even a _part_ of these plans?” he asked quietly, dangerously, folding his arms in front of him.

“Of course,” Thorin said. If he noticed the darker note to Bilbo’s voice he didn’t let on. “We can talk more back at the base. Come on.”

“No.” Bilbo had had enough of being trodden on and ridiculed – he missed being at home, surrounded by trees; he could deal with being away from the Shire but not when it came at the cost of this constant derision on Thorin’s part. Thorin, who kept swinging back and forth more often than an alchemist’s pendulum – did he want Bilbo there? Did he appreciate just what Bilbo and the Children were doing for them? Bilbo couldn’t work it out, his moods fluctuating faster than spring weather.

“No?” Thorin repeated, as if its meaning were so very hard to grasp.

“No,” Bilbo confirmed, standing his ground even when Thorin came closer. “I won’t go a step further, not all the while you treat me like this.”

“Like what?” Thorin seemed genuinely confused and Bilbo’s laugh was empty, ringing hollowly in the stone corridor.

“The others all manage to be civil, but you – I can’t work it out, Thorin Oakenshield. One minute you’re civil and the next you’re awful, biting off the hand I offer in friendship! I won’t stay while you treat me like a plaything, to be toyed with and discarded!” He drew in a sharp breath, feeling his chest tightening. “I will not let you treat me like one of the girls in your sister’s _whore house,”_ he finished spitefully, more venom in his words than on his famed poisoned darts.

A hand was suddenly gripping his upper arm tightly, squeezing so tight it almost hurt. “Don’t you speak of her like that,” Thorin growled, his voice loaded with anger.

“Like what?” Bilbo laughed, ignoring the feeling of his fingers going numb. “I didn’t speak of your sister. Only her _establishment.”_

Thorin stepped even closer, so that Bilbo had to crane his neck to be able to look into his eyes, burning with anger. He resisted the urge to take a step back, instead meeting Thorin’s fierce gaze square on. “You went away for two days,” Thorin hissed. “Do you truly find it surprising that we made plans in your absence?” He was so close Bilbo could smell the musk of his cloak.

“Yes,” he bit back. “Especially if you and I are the ones carrying out said plan.” They stood like that for a minute more, Bilbo’s arm surely sporting an impressive circlet of bruises by now. “Am I going to have to use a knife on you again?” he asked coldly and, with fury in his eyes, Thorin dropped his arm, turning around and storming off.

Bilbo rubbed at his arm as Thorin’s steps faded and echoed, tears prickling his eyes but which he ignored. He truly didn’t know if he was coming or going with Thorin, but he was going to find out.

***

Thorin knew he hadn’t handled things very well at all, but his guilt was easy enough to push away and ignore as he fell asleep. Not so much the day after when the atmosphere at breakfast was cold as ice and thick with unspoken words. Bilbo refused to even look at him and Balin glared at him enough for two.

He didn’t know why he’d lost his temper, just as he couldn’t work out why Bilbo hadn’t drawn his blade and used it on him to get him to let go. But the fact remained he had and now the assassin he would be infiltrating a potentially dangerous place with was refusing to talk to him.

Once again, he supposed he had to apologise, and once again Thorin didn’t relish the idea.

They’d be carrying out the assignment the day after next so Thorin decided to get it over and done with as soon as possible. Bilbo had been receptive to his apology before, so Thorin didn’t doubt that he would be so again. After all, it would make things easier.

But Bilbo proved elusive and for the rest of the day, Thorin couldn’t find him. He wasn’t in his room, he wasn’t with Kíli or Ori or Bofur (and he refused to acknowledge that the gnawing resentment lessened somewhat at that revelation) nor even in Balin’s library. No one seemed to know where he’d gone and even Dwalin seemed annoyed.

“What did you say to ‘im?” he growled at Thorin when Bilbo didn’t turn up to lunch, which everyone agreed was out of character.

“I didn’t,” Thorin protested guiltily. He still believed that Bilbo had overreacted about the plan, but he knew he’d behaved wrongly towards the Child afterwards.

“What if you finally drove him away for good?” Dwalin continued, as if he hadn’t heard Thorin. “He might have decided to leave.”

“He wouldn’t,” Thorin said quietly. He was relatively sure about this; from what he’d gleaned about Bilbo, he was a stickler for respectability and respectable folk don’t go back on their word. Bilbo would be back, he was convinced. He was sure. Maybe.

When he still wasn’t back by suppertime, he started to worry a little – internally. On the outside he presented a stony facade and ignored the looks the others shot at him. Bilbo still wasn’t back by the time everyone headed off to bed. Instead of doing so too, Thorin took one of the chairs by the fire in the main room and sat, the only light coming from the gradually dying flames, waiting for Bilbo. He wouldn’t sleep until the other man got back...

He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew he could hear voices and clattering from next door as people got ready for breakfast; blearily he rubbed his eyes and stood, stretching, before making his way to the dining room.

He found an assortment of Sons already settling down to eat, platters of bread and eggs and smoked meats set before them. Ori was scribbling away on a piece of parchment, his toast before him forgotten, while Dori beside him clucked like a mother hen over Kíli. Balin was in his habitual space, the seat to the right of the head of the table – reserved for Thorin, as befit his status. But what made his gut curl in irritation was the sight of Bilbo Baggins, sitting perfectly at ease to the left of Thorin’s seat, deep in conversation with Bofur and behaving as if he hadn’t gone missing for a whole day yesterday.

He gave the barest cursory flicker of a glance at Thorin as he entered before he turned his gaze back to Bofur, laughing at something the _toy-maker_ said. Incensed, Thorin made his way purposefully to his seat, accepting the dish of eggs from Balin as he stared at the back of Bilbo’s head, waiting for him to look at him.

But Bilbo didn’t. Thorin wasn’t going to stoop to such hints as coughing to get his attention, and he had no doubt Bilbo would ignore him anyway. Indeed, Bofur seemed to give a small cough and glance pointedly at Thorin, but Bilbo carried on talking – they seemed to be discussing different trades – as he poured Bofur a glass of water. Bofur looked both amused and embarrassed, and still Bilbo kept talking. The rest of the table were doing their utmost to look as if they were busy while actually listening and watching to see what would happen (the exception being Ori, who was actually engrossed in whatever he was writing).

“Master Baggins,” Thorin said eventually when Bilbo paused thoughtfully. Bilbo turned to him, a look of irritation on his face.

“I’m a little busy, if you don’t mind.” And he turned back to Bofur, carrying on from where he’d broken off.

“Baggins, I insist that you–”

“ _Master_ Oakenshield, I _insist_ that your manners are appalling. I am talking to Bofur.”

Before he could continue, Thorin cut in. “And yet you are also ignoring me. What do your _manners_ say about that?”

Bilbo looked absolutely livid that Thorin would use his own standards against him and Thorin sat back with a smug smile.

“Alright,” Bilbo said stiffly, his countenance just on this side of civil while his eyes flashed murder. “What do you want that’s so important it can’t wait?”

Ignoring the weighty gazes of the others, Thorin inclined his head slightly in Bilbo’s direction. “I need to speak with you afterwards.” Bilbo looked about to refuse so he quickly clarified. “I wish to apologise for what happened the other day.” He saw a brief moment of surprise in Bilbo’s eyes – did the Child think him completely savage? – and Bilbo sat back a little, shifting in his seat.

“Oh,” he said, looking away from Thorin. “Well. Alright.”

Thorin breathed a low sigh of relief – he honestly wasn’t used to having to tread so carefully around someone, wary of saying anything that might offend their – sensibilities. Gradually the others trickled in to join them at breakfast and the platters were cleared rather quickly; eventually everyone was finished and Thorin and Bilbo were left alone in the dining room.

Swallowing his pride again – it was easier this time, perhaps because he knew he’d lashed out without reason – Thorin watched Bilbo, fiddling with the remnants of a piece of rye bread, and spoke.

“I’m sorry, Master Baggins,” he said, trying to sound genuine but coming off slightly resentful. “I had no right to behave so towards you.”

Bilbo snorted, his eyes flicking up to meet Thorin’s. “This is becoming a bit of a habit, is it not?”

Thorin said nothing, merely kept his face regretful, though he wasn’t sure how well that was going. Bilbo shot him a hard look, his fingers going quite still all of a sudden.

“I hope you know the only reason I’m staying is because Smaug is a problem to the Children too, and not because I care about _you.”_

He said it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that it was almost enough to make Thorin angry again, but he bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself calm. “I was labouring under no such _delusions,”_ he said harshly. “Although I do hope your concern in this venture stretches so far as to work _with_ me tomorrow so that we might both make it out alive.”

Bilbo glared back at him, knowing that they would both have to work with the other and keep each other alive, if it came to it. Thorin had a sudden fear of what the Children might do should Bilbo die while with the Sons. Thorin had no doubt it wouldn’t be pretty and might well spell the end of the Sons of Durin, poor and wiped out down to a handful as they were.

Thorin wasn’t the most light-hearted of people, inclined to misery and moroseness more often than not, but he recognised that it was up to him to sort this out. Taking a breath, suddenly nervous for some reason, he met Bilbo’s hard gaze, hunching his shoulders and trying to look humble.

“If it’s any consolation, I will make sure you don’t die tomorrow,” he said, trying to be cheerful but just sounding uncertain.

Bilbo’s lips twitched, just a tiny amount, but it was enough. “Am I supposed to be comforted by that?” he asked, arching his eyebrows sternly, though there was no malice in his voice.

“It’s the best I can do, I’m afraid,” Thorin admitted; Bilbo’s lips curled into a full smile and Thorin felt his own mouth mirror it.

“It’ll have to do, then, I suppose,” Bilbo said and stood. He nodded to Thorin and started towards the door, but before he could leave Thorin called out to him. Bilbo turned back to him, one hand on the doorknob, looking at him archly.

“Yes?”

“If... If you don’t mind me asking, where did you go yesterday?” he asked, rushing it out in one breath. “We couldn’t find you.”

For a moment it looked as if Bilbo _did_ mind his asking, very much so; but then he smiled again; a smug upturn of the lips.

“I went to see your sister,” he said simply before leaving. His laughter echoed in the stone corridor after him as Thorin soundly cursed.

***

Bilbo was ready. His body was thrumming with adrenaline as he and Thorin made their silent way through the streets, headed for the entrance to the hideout Tauriel had told them of.

After running through what plans they had, he and Thorin had retired early. Bilbo had slept as much as he could, which admittedly wasn’t much as he’d spent a long while pacing before his fireplace before exhaustion took him and he’d fallen into bed. He’d been woken at midnight, and now he and Thorin were making their way through the deserted streets and alleys in the small hours of the morning.

The hour of the wolf, some called it. The darkest hour, just before the dawn. It was now that the guards on duty would be coming to the end of their watch, their thoughts turning to warm fires and a hot meal and home. It was now that they’d be most distracted and therefore easier to slip past.

Slip past, or kill. It was a necessary evil in their line of work. He’d killed before and he’d kill again, but he gained no enjoyment from it with each mark of a dart or sinking of a knife into flesh.

He and Thorin didn’t talk on the way there – their voices would carry on the quiet empty air too loudly – but there was nothing to say anyway. He did steal glances at the man beside him, however, every now and again. Thorin had apologised more to him in the few days they’d been in this alliance than he had in the past year, Balin had told him in amusement. Bilbo wasn’t sure if he should be honoured that Thorin would apologise to him, or annoyed that he had to do so in the first place.

Eventually they neared the place. According to Tauriel, the entrance was hidden in the ruins of some of the old stone warehouses in Greenwood that had stood there for years and years, until they’d been torn down by Smaug when he first came to power. The walls of some of them were still partly standing, jutting up from the abandoned tile floor like jagged teeth. Weeds and moss sprouted around the bases and in the cracked mortar, holding what remained of the bricks together.

Instead of venturing straight in, the two of them climbed to the roof of one of the nearby merchants’ houses, careful to stay in shadow lest they be spotted by the guards that periodically patrolled the area.

“Do you see the entrance?” Thorin breathed as they crouched, wreathed in darkness and observing the crumbling stone maze before them. Bilbo didn’t answer immediately, but after a couple of moments he pointed over to where two dilapidated walls met. There was a small grate there, large enough for a man to slip through.

“There,” he whispered back. “That must be it.” Bilbo could feel Thorin’s eyes on him and he glanced at the Son quickly, surprised at the small smile quirking his lips upwards.

“You have keen eyes, Master Baggins,” he said, and Bilbo quashed the sudden urge to smile back. He didn’t need praise from Thorin. Instead he peered around for possible guards or traps, but saw nothing immediately obvious. They’d still have to be careful, though.

The two of them descended from the roof and moved silently towards the grate. Bilbo kept an eye on the floor to check for loose flagstones which could be hiding a trapdoor, or wires ready to be tripped by the weight of a foot, while Thorin observed the walls – or what remained of them – for similar things. There was nothing, and they reached the grate without incident.

Bilbo was slightly disconcerted by the lack of external security. Did it mean that they would be facing hordes of guards within? Or that they didn’t care if people found them? Bilbo couldn’t work it out. If they’d go to such lengths as hide underground, why would they then not worry about being found? Once again, Bilbo could only assume that it meant they were endorsed by Smaug and the Templars and as such no action would be taken against them.

Thorin was studying the grate and let out a tiny noise of success as he loosened the bars enough that they’d be able to fit through. Neither knew what was waiting for them on the other side, and it was with anticipation and apprehension that they looked at each other, before Bilbo nodded and slipped through first, landing lightly in a pitch black tunnel, ready with his darts and the comforting weight of his crossbow at his waist.

But there was nothing. No guards swarmed him, no arrows let loose or hot oil poured through murder holes; as his eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw that there was very little by way of security. A burnt out torch hanging in a bracket was the only sign that there was any security at all. He gave a low whistle and Thorin dropped in too, straightening with his hand on his sword hilt. His eyes adjusted faster than Bilbo’s had and his expression was one of confusion.

Bilbo walked over to the torch on the wall. There was still a faint warmth to the air around it.

“It’s fresh,” he whispered, voice echoing off the walls strangely. “Still warm. Whoever was here, they’ll surely be back.”

Thorin looked around uneasily. “We should move on.”

They did, continuing on down this dark tunnel with no lights, keeping a light hand to the wall to guide them. They encountered nothing but a couple more abandoned torches, the last one still smouldering, rushes glowing orange brightly in the darkness. Bilbo had a bitter taste in his mouth; it wasn’t exactly fear but worse than apprehension. Dread. Why were there no guards on duty? Tauriel and the Thieves hadn’t been able to get in because of guards, so where had they gone?

Finally it began to lighten and they reached a hall, lit by the red light of the sunrise filtering in through the holes up in the ceiling disguised as drain holes and reflected across the room with mirrors. They stayed in the darkness of the tunnel, trying to see if there was anyone there. Again, it appeared to be deserted. There were various tunnels around the edge of the hall but only one had torches flickering by it. They made for it, sticking to the shadows near the wall.

Glancing at each other in unease they began to follow it. All of a sudden they heard voices, still from a way away but approaching fast enough for them to look at each other in alarm. They had no choice but to hurry forwards and hope they could find another branch to hide in while the voices passed. They were just despairing when Bilbo suddenly spotted a little alcove, too small for both of them side by side but Bilbo scaled the wall to make room for Thorin below.

The voices – there appeared to be two of them – were cruel and rough and one of them had a hacking laugh that sounded loudly through the tunnel.

“‘Urry up, will ya?” one voice said to the other. “I don’t fancy losing my fingers.”

The other one laughed, that strange clacking noise reverberating off the walls. “That’s the only useful bit about you. They wouldn’t cut yer fingers off, elsewise who’d do the skinning? I don’t like getting me hands dirty.”

“Shut it an’ ‘urry up,” the other one complained. “Master don’t like waiting.”

The other’s reply was unintelligible through the hacking laugh he let out, and when they were gone Bilbo sagged in relief. Thorin moved away so he could clamber down but as Bilbo found his hand holds he found something else. On the other side of the alcove, about a head higher than where he was, was a large gap in the rock.

“Thorin,” he whispered. “Hang on a moment.”

“What is it?” Bilbo could tell Thorin didn’t like staying still while they were in unknown territory.

“I might have – found something,” Bilbo said as he pulled himself up to the gap. He let out a breath when he realised it wasn’t just a gap in the rock but a whole other tunnel, too small for standing in and so they’d have to crawl, but it seemed to follow the other tunnel. “It’s another tunnel,” he whispered down and heaved himself inside.

“Bilbo!” he heard Thorin call out but he continued on, feeling around with his hands. There was an irritated huff before Thorin’s head appeared in the gap behind him and he too pulled himself up. Thorin looked around uncertainly.

“We’ll just follow it for a bit,” Bilbo said and Thorin nodded. He set off, feeling his way forward with his hands searching out the rock. Sounds began to filter through towards them, loud shouts and roars. They slowed slightly, moving more warily. There were other tunnels branching off theirs, though of differing sizes and one of them hadn’t gone on for more than a foot. Bilbo couldn’t work out if they were man-made or were just natural fissures in the rock, or a bit of both.

The tunnel widened a little, enough for Thorin to move from trailing Bilbo to crawling beside him. Suddenly the noise became deafening and a flickering orange light bathed the tunnel ahead. Extremely cautiously they moved on, and Bilbo could see that they’d reached the end of the tunnel. Beyond that lip of rock lay a cavern where, judging from the noise, a hundred or so people were gathered. Ever so silently and carefully, the two of them peered over it, the brightness of all the torches blinding after so long spent in blackness.

The sight that met their eyes filled Bilbo with horror. There was indeed a cavern, although this one had a set of steps leading up to a round door which, Bilbo assumed, opened onto the outside world, most likely within the Citadel. But what drew the eye was the horrific looking machine in the centre of the room. Huge, with massive foot-long spikes tapering out from the sides, it _looked_ like a cross between a catapult and a battering ram. He glanced at Thorin, who was looking just as disturbed as he was.

He shook his head jerkily to show he didn’t know what it was either.

Suddenly Bilbo saw something worse, which made his blood run cold. Over in the corner, a group of men – and some women – were gathered into a makeshift pen constructed of timber planks. They weren’t tied, but there were three guards before it armed with spears and swords.

Another roar filled the air and it became apparent why there were no guards anywhere except in this cavern. Someone stood on those wooden stairs leading to the surface, a thick set, brawny man with a squashed, misshapen face. He looked like the sort who, if he’d been born to a peasant family, would have been left somewhere to die or be taken in by others; judging by the fine velvet he wore and the flash of diamonds on his clothes, he was of more noble – or at least wealthy – blood.

_All of you will gain your reward, if you follow your orders. You will play your part in creating a new Arda..._

His face was scary enough, but coupled with his voice, Bilbo knew he wasn’t the sort of man you’d want to meet on your way home. It was a gruff, rough, roaring voice that echoed in the cavern. Beside him, he felt Thorin stiffen.

“Bolg,” he growled, and looked for all the world as if he was going to leap down from their view point right there and then. Bilbo grabbed his shoulder as he moved, and when Thorin’s eyes met his they were filled with hatred.

“I have to kill him,” he snarled, forgetting to be quiet and only remaining unheard thanks to the shouts of the men below, all with the eye insignia Tauriel had shown them on their backs. He made as if to shake Bilbo off but Bilbo held on tightly, holding him with the other hand too. Lying on their stomachs like this, it was a strange mockery of a lover’s embrace.

“We will,” Bilbo promised him, though he didn’t know why Thorin wanted to kill this man. But he knew that if he didn’t do something, Thorin would get himself – and most likely both of them – killed. “We will kill him, but not now. Not now.”

Bolg’s speech had come to a rousing conclusion and the men in the jerkins with the grey eyes were roaring or shouting. Thorin was glaring back at Bolg, his whole body taut as a bow string, and Bilbo forced him to look at him as the men dispersed and Bolg climbed on up the stairs. Two guards stayed down at the foot of the stair case.

“Look at me,” Bilbo said in a furious whisper and it was with difficulty that Thorin tore his gaze from the man with the misshapen face. “Focus on me,” he said. “Focus on what we’re going to do about _that–”_ he gestured at the strange war machine, “–and how we’re going to help _them.”_ He nodded in the direction of the workers, who were still in their pen.

As the hall fell to normal volume levels, Thorin’s body went limp and he sagged against the stone. “Thank you,” he said curtly; Bilbo said nothing but released his hold on Thorin. He hadn’t realised his nails had been digging in to Thorin’s skin, he’d been clutching him so tightly.

“Who is he?” he eventually asked.

“Azog’s son,” Thorin replied shortly. “Whatever he’s planning, it’s not good.”

Bilbo looked again at the strange contraption of wood and metal, fearsome and not even complete. They had to destroy it. He knew how they could, but he wouldn’t all the while there were innocent people in there. They had to free the workers.

“Thorin,” he whispered. “Could you get to the guards by the pen?” Thorin gave a curt nod. “Do whatever you can and get them free. Take them through that door and let them go home.” Thorin could deal with the five guards; Bilbo had no doubt he could take on ten of them and still come out on top.

Thorin held his gaze for a long moment before nodding again. Quietly he slipped down, hidden by his dark cloak. The guards by the pen were laughing among themselves and it was only from a shout from those guarding the stairs that they realised Thorin’s presence as he crossed the hall. He was almost sauntering, Bilbo would have said, hand on his hip where his sword was hidden.

“Who are you?” one of them asked, his face looking as if it had been smashed in one too many times. Bilbo listened intently while he fiddled with his weapons, getting them ready for the right moment.

“Someone you don’t want to fight _.”_ Bilbo saw a flash of metal as the morning sun caught it and glanced up to see Thorin, sword in his hand and twisting it impressively between his fingers. He could see that the guards were warier now, pulling closer together. The two by the stairs were standing ready and alert. The one who’d spoken before gave a nasty laugh, though it sounded a little forced.

“Get away from here,” another said. “Or we’ll kill you.”

Bilbo could hear the smirk in Thorin’s voice. “I’d like to see you try.” Suddenly there was a clash of metal on metal, the screeching song of blades crashing together and ringing loudly in the large echoing cavern. Bilbo couldn’t keep his eyes from the spectacle below; Thorin moved fast, jabbing and poking and slashing with a grace he certainly didn’t possess normally and it wasn’t long before the three guards lay unmoving before him, a pool of red slowly spreading. He was barely out of breath when he looked at the others, who hesitated for just a moment before charging him. The workers in the pen were cringing away from the sounds and Bilbo willed Thorin to end it quickly, if not for their sake then before more guards could be summoned by the noise.

As Thorin fought he slipped down from his perch and hurried to the horrific looking war machine. Pulling out a pouch from his belt he grabbed a handful of the grainy powder and threw it over the contraption, making a pile of it in the centre of the main body. There was a grunt from behind him and he saw Thorin with his sword through one guard, the blade sticking out through his back, and a knife in the other’s neck, red bloody bubbles being choked up before he fell to the ground.

Thorin met his gaze and Bilbo could hardly move for a moment, finally seeing how dangerous he could be. He hadn’t had much chance before but now he felt a faint stirring of fear as he looked at the Son, panting slightly and hair disarranged, blood dripping from his weapons and a fierce, flinty glint in his eyes.

He finally found his voice. “Let them out and get them out of here,” he said. “Quickly.” Thorin nodded and, wiping down his blades on the guard’s jerkins before sheathing them, he hurried over to the pen. His voice was gentle as he cut the ropes and led them to the stairs, urging them on. There were over thirty of them in total, all frightened and filthy.

As they started to ascend the stairs, Thorin following, he looked back at Bilbo.

“I’ll follow,” he said. “Go on. Get them well away.”

“What are you going to do?” Thorin asked, voice sharp.

“Leave the door open,” was all Bilbo said as he unhooked his crossbow and began loading a quarrel. Thorin looked as if he wanted to say more, but at Bilbo’s look he returned to shepherding the workers out of the cavern. Bilbo could hear voices approaching and knew he didn’t have long.

Once all the people were out and Thorin had had time to get them at least a little way away, Bilbo too began to climb the stairs. He held his crossbow in one hand, a flint in the other. Heart thumping, he stood three quarters of the way up the stairs and hoped he’d be able to make it the rest of the way.

More guards in the charcoal grey jerkins arrived in the doorway of the tunnel and stared at him in surprise. Bilbo swept a mocking bow.

“A message from the Sons of Durin,” he said, voice full of mirth. As they recovered their wits and began to surge forward towards him, he struck the flint on the wall beside him and set the spark to his crossbow quarrel, on the point and the fletching until it was burning brightly. As the guards were nearing the stairs he aimed and let loose before throwing himself up the rest of the stairs. He had just reached the top when he heard the first crackle as the thin trail of powder he’d laid caught, and the sudden blast from behind him threw him out into the brightness of the morning in a wave of white hot heat.


	5. A Nest Of Vipers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a reference video for something riiiight at the very end. If you've played the AC games you'll recognise a Leap of Faith; for those of you who haven't, this is it! https://youtu.be/8uwBTgFI2oQ 
> 
> Thanks so much for all the kudos and comments so far - I really appreciate it! :)

**Chapter V**

The first thing to greet Bilbo when he opened his eyes blearily was the face of an old man with wild greying hair, a large nose and a huge beard with two braids which flicked upwards. Hazily he blinked a few times, trying to blink away the fuzziness of his vision, and the man spoke. He had a rough brogue to his voice but he sounded cheerful enough.

“‘E’s comin’ round,” he said to the room at large and helped Bilbo to sit up before handing him a small cup of water. “How ye feelin’, lad?” he asked gently.

Bilbo took a sip of the water, sighing in relief as it hit his parched mouth, and gulped it down quickly. He handed the man back his cup. “Better. Thank you.”

“Any wooziness? How’s yer vision?” 

The blurriness had gone and his head felt better thanks to the water, but he was wary of moving his head too much. Instead he gave a small smile. “It’s alright. I’m good.”

The man looked into his eyes closely for a long moment before humming to himself and nodding, stepping back. “Aye. Yer alright.” The man looked back at someone in the main room and Bilbo blinked as two figures stepped into focus. One was Balin, his face creased with a smile to see Bilbo better – the relief was evident in his eyes, and Bilbo smiled back.

“We’ve been worried about you, Master Baggins,” he said. “Óin here was concerned when Thorin carried you in unconscious.” Bilbo didn’t remember anything beyond the blast that had sent him out into the daylight, and that Thorin had brought him back to the Sons was news to him. He looked again at the grey-haired man, standing over a case of little vials.

“ _You’re_ Óin,” he said.

“Aye, laddie,” the man smiled and his eyes crinkled with deep crows’ feet. “Pleased to meet you.”

Bilbo was interrupted from answering as the other person came forward. He wore a dark glower as he observed Bilbo.

“What were you _doing?”_  Thorin asked roughly. “You almost got yourself _killed.”_

“Hullo to you too,” Bilbo greeted him acidly. “Glad to see you made it out of there as well.”

Thorin’s glare wavered slightly and his lips eventually quirked into a smile, or a shade of one at least. “Thanks to you,” he said, and his voice was sincere. Bilbo remembered when their positions had been reversed and Thorin had been the injured one; the Son’s thanks then had been grudging at best and the difference now was stark. He looked away, down at his hands in his lap. 

“You got the people away and to safety?” he asked and Thorin nodded.

“I did. Bilbo...” he paused. “You set that place alight. It exploded.”

Bilbo just managed to refrain from rolling his eyes. “It worked though. That thing is no more.”

“As were you, nearly,” Thorin said and his voice was hard again. “I told you I’d make sure you got out of there and you nearly–”

“I was too busy stopping you from carrying out your death wish!” Bilbo retorted hotly. “You’d have run right through that mass of armed hostile people, who would have cut you down long before you got anywhere near that man.” Thorin looked about to protest but Balin interrupted.

“Who was this?” he asked sharply. “Thorin?”

Thorin hesitated a moment before spitting out the name. “Bolg.”

“Bolg?” Balin’s eyes widened at Thorin’s affirmative nod. He looked worried. “That is troubling.” He looked at Bilbo and gave a small smile. “When you’re better we’ll discuss what you found down there.” He placed a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder and squeezed gently before standing and leaving, Óin following. He was left alone with Thorin, who took Balin’s vacated seat.

There was silence in the room for a little bit before Bilbo spoke up. “Why did you want to kill Bolg?” Thorin gave a twist of his shoulder, a half-hearted attempt at a shrug. “Thorin, you were going to go after him right there and then. He’s obviously important to you, or you wouldn’t care.”

Thorin’s face contorted as if he were in pain, before it settled back into its habitual scowl. He glanced up at Bilbo and sighed in defeat. “You asked me once why I have the name Oakenshield. It’s... It’s not a pleasant story, but I’ll tell you, if you still wish to know.”

“I do,” Bilbo said softly and Thorin let out a little huff of air, clasping his hands in his lap and not looking at Bilbo.  When he spoke again, his voice was void of emotion, as if he was distancing himself from it.

“After... After my family died, Dís was pregnant with Kíli, Fíli was still a babe in arms and their father dead. We sought refuge with Balin and Dwalin, cousins of ours, and it was them who enlightened us about our family’s history as Sons. My father had wanted things to be different for us, but his hopes and good faith had cost him his life. It was necessary that Dís and I learn the ways of the Sons, and soon enough we were initiated.” He looked at Bilbo and then back at his hands. Bilbo didn’t move or make a sound.

“Nine  years ago, I took part in a mission. It was supposed to be simple, but someone must have betrayed us because we were found out... _He_ found us. I’ll spare you the details of what he did, he and his father. All you need to know is that it was worse than anything I’d ever seen, have ever seen–” His voice sounded choked for a minute and Bilbo had to force himself to remain still; Thorin swallowed and continued.

“I couldn’t stand there and watch them do that to my brothers and sisters. I couldn’t. So I used whatever I could lay my hands on as a shield, running at them with the remains of an oaken timber plank on my arm and only my knives left to me. I wounded Azog badly enough that he retreated, cowardly scum that he is, leaving me and the few brothers who yet lived to clear up the carnage.” He looked to Bilbo then and there was a haunted look in his eyes.

The room was so silent, their breathing the only sound. Bilbo made himself keep meeting Thorin’s gaze, not wanting to look away but fearing the pain those eyes like ice chips held.

“Thank you,” he said eventually, “for telling me.”

Thorin shook his head. “A few months later Bolg found my sister. She’d just bought The Pink Sapphire and Kíli just born, and had gone to the market...” His voice was like shards of ice when he spoke, sharp but brittle with emotion. “I thank Mahal every day that Dís was trained with weapons, or I’d have lost her too, after whatever foul things that filth would have done to her.”

Bilbo shuddered, imagining only too clearly what horrors might have occurred. He looked at Thorin, sitting up until they were of a height. “It’s obvious, then, what we’ve to do.”

Thorin looked at him uncertainly. “What?”

Bilbo let a small smirk curl on his face. “We’ve got to kill him.”

Thorin looked at him in surprise for a moment before his face split into a triumphant grin. Bilbo almost shivered at the intensity of his gaze, almost hungry, but he didn’t look away. He’d help Thorin get to Bolg, and he’d relish it. 

***

Balin’s face was pinched with worry when Thorin and Bilbo – who had insisted on returning to normal routine and not remaining on bed rest – told him about Bolg and their desire to kill him.

“He’s Azog’s son,” Bilbo urged. “Imagine, the son of the city’s Commander being killed by the Sons of Durin! It’ll make them angry and reckless, and prone to mistakes. We can use that.”

“It could,” Balin agreed smoothly but from his tone of voice Thorin knew he was about to disagree. “However it could end up only succeeding in bringing the entirety of the Citadel’s wrath upon us, which would surely mean the end!” He looked at Thorin. “I know you want revenge, but with this you might harm us all. Should you fail–”

“We won’t fail,” Bilbo assured him. “Thorin and I are Master Assassins. If anyone can do this, we can. Thorin can.”

Balin still looked troubled. “And what will you do once he’s dead? Once all of the Citadel’s forces are hunting us after the death of one of their own at the hands of the Sons, what then?”

“They won’t know,” Bilbo said softly. “There are many ways for someone to die, and not all of them leave traces.” He caught Thorin’s eye then and Thorin kept his mouth shut; he wouldn’t settle for anything less than a knife through Bolg’s heart – or perhaps his back, as befit the low-life he was – but that would not win Balin over.

Balin didn’t look convinced but then he gave an angry sigh, his brow furrowing and Thorin realised Balin wasn’t young anymore. “Fine,” he said crossly. “Do as you will, but don’t ask me to give you my blessing. And don’t incriminate us in any way.” He looked them both in the eye for a long time, holding Thorin’s gaze a moment longer. He sighed again and waved them away irritably.

As they left Balin’s office Bilbo shot Thorin a triumphant smile and Thorin felt his lips twitch. He’d smiled more at Bilbo Baggins of the Children of Yavanna in the short time he’d been with them than he had to anyone in the last few years, and that worried him.

Much as Thorin didn’t like to admit it, especially not to himself, his heart had stopped when he’d been waiting for Bilbo to appear from that door and instead he’d been greeted with an explosion of heat and Bilbo’s unconscious body. He’d carried him all the way back, his heart in his throat and desperate to get him back to safety. Once Óin had been called and Bilbo was fine, though still unconscious, he’d been slightly embarrassed of his worry but that hadn’t stopped him from sitting by the Child’s bedside until he woke, not that he’d ever tell him that.

He hated telling the story behind his name, but he’d done so for Bilbo. He hated remembering it, admitting to it happening, but he had; to his relief Bilbo hadn’t turned away in disgust but instead had smiled and effectively told him he’d help him kill Bolg. Aside from killing Smaug himself, it was the biggest thing he could do to win Thorin over.

They both had unconsciously paused by the door to the main living room, neither wanting to shatter this truce they’d seemingly found. Thorin knew the debt he’d owe Bilbo after this would be much bigger than he’d ever thought, and cut that much closer to the bone.

He started when he realised Bilbo was talking.

“I have a couple of things to see to in the city,” he was saying. “I’ll only be a while.”

“I’ll meet you at Bombur’s inn in a couple of hours,” Thorin offered. “I have something I need to do as well.”

Bilbo nodded before turning and leaving. Thorin watched him go before shaking himself irritably and entering the living room. Kíli was sat with Ori, who was showing him his plans and answering all Kíli’s fascinated questions. They both looked up at Thorin as he entered and Kíli beamed widely. Thorin smiled back and ruffled the lad’s hair, keeping his hand cupping the boy’s head in a gesture of affection when he spoke.

“Have either of you seen Dwalin?”

Kíli shook his head but – to Thorin’s surprise – Ori coloured a little and ducked his head.

“He’s in the training room,” he said. “Sparring with Dori.”

Thorin wasn’t surprised; it was often that Dwalin would be found in the weaponry, and Dori was his partner of choice usually, probably because the eldest Rison was the only one of them who could best him in terms of strength. Thorin could sometimes defeat him when they sparred, but his success was largely due to the fact he was quicker on his feet than Dwalin; if the older Son managed to corner him there was no question Dwalin would be victorious.

He did wonder why it had got Ori so flustered, however. He raised his eyebrows at Kíli, who grinned and jumped up to join him, and the two of them went to find Dwalin.

They heard them before they saw them. The sound of Dwalin’s practice axes ringing and clashing against Dori’s blunted longsword, the metal screeching loudly. The grunts and growls of exertion sounded fiercer today and Thorin wondered at it. He threw open the door to the training room and he and Kíli stood there, watching the deadly dance before them. Neither Son looked at them, both focused on the opponent in front of them.

Dori was red in the face and appeared to be responsible for most of the attacks; now that Thorin could see, he noticed that Dwalin’s axes were raised to block and defend more often than not, though occasionally he’d manage to get in a blow. Thorin glanced down at his nephew who looked as bemused as he did – although he was also entranced by the flashing blades.

“What is going on here?” he called out sharply, making himself heard over the din.

Neither party stopped fighting, however; indeed, it only seemed to fuel their ferocity. The force behind Dori’s attacks increased and Dwalin’s grunts became near-snarls.

“Both of you! Stand down!” Thorin roared. To his relief the two of them froze and grudgingly dropped their weapons. Dori glared at Dwalin, who refused to look at him. “What in Mahal’s name is this about?” Thorin demanded.

“A disagreement,” Dwalin said shortly and Dori gave a snort.

“A question of honour, Mister Oakenshield,” he said, glaring at Dwalin’s back as he moved to put his axes away.

“You’ll talk to me about this later this evening,” he said brusquely. “We can’t have grievances between us now.” Sullenly they both nodded and Thorin was relieved. “Dwalin, I wish to ask you something.”

Dori put his own blunted sword away and bowed to Thorin before making his way out of the room, wiping his brow as he went. Once he was gone, Thorin looked to Dwalin, face pink from the exertion.

“I’m not going to ask what all that was about,” Thorin said archly, raising an eyebrow, and Dwalin had the grace to look ashamed. “I want you to accompany me to Bombur’s. I need to speak to Pundurûn and he’s with his Thieves today.”

“Why do you need to speak to him?” Dwalin asked, intrigued. Thorin glanced down at Kíli by his side then back to Dwalin.

“Important matters,” was all he said.

“Well, let me just get...cleaned up,” he said sheepishly and hurried off to get changed. Thorin made his way back to the common room, where Bofur and Bifur had now joined Ori, listening to Kíli chatter on about what he’d learnt in his lessons that day. Kíli’s delight in learning – at least in things that interested him – made him proud, though often the boy would be hard-pressed to take an interest in anything if it meant he couldn’t practice with his bow.

When Dwalin was ready he left Kíli with Bifur and Bofur and he and Dwalin set off down the underground tunnels. They walked in silence for a while until Dwalin got restless beside him and Thorin commanded him to tell him what he was worrying over.

“It’s just...” Dwalin sounded nervous and Thorin was surprised. “Dori might...exaggerate his story a little,” he said and Thorin was legitimately amazed at how sheepish he sounded. “You know how prone he is to embellishment wherever his brother’s concerned.”

“Which brother might that be?” Thorin asked mildly, hiding his smirk.

Dwalin coughed. “Ori.”

“Oh? And what’s Dori going to say to me about...Ori?”

“Just the usual, you know. That he’s young and innocent and needs to be protected, that sort of thing.”

“And what’s that got to do with you?”

“Well...” Dwalin rubbed at the back of his neck. “He may or may not have found me...With Ori. In his chamber.”

Thorin couldn’t stifle the laughter that bubbled up then and he laughed, loudly – enough that Dwalin looked at him in surprise, his embarrassment forgotten for the moment.

“I see,” Thorin said after a while, once he’d calmed enough. “And what were you doing with young Ori...in his chamber?”

“Nothing,” Dwalin said. “Honest to the Maker, I swear we weren’t doing anything. We were just...talking. He’s changed since he was at Weathertop and that night, when I brought him back... He’s brave, Thorin, braver than we ever knew. I just wanted to talk to him and he...” Dwalin trailed off. Thorin patted his friend and cousin’s arm.

“Don’t worry,” he said, not bothering to hide his amusement. “I’ll sort things with Dori.” Dwalin gave a sigh of relief.

They surfaced soon enough near Bombur’s inn, Thorin peering through the convenient cracks in the mortar to check the alleyway was deserted. Once out, he and Dwalin made their way to the tavern and headed for the back room where the Thieves were located.

It was a lot less busy than the last time they were here; there were only a couple of men playing at darts and a couple were seated around the little room at various intervals, sipping at mugs of beer. Nori’s copper hair immediately identified him, however, and Thorin and Dwalin moved to take the seats opposite him, frightening away his other companions.

“I was listening to their reports,” he told them reproachfully. He didn’t even look surprised to see them.

“You’ve got even more important things to hear about,” Thorin said in a low voice. And he proceeded to tell them all about their infiltration of the hideout, the war machine they’d found, and finally about Bolg. Dwalin stiffened at the mention of the Commander’s son – he too had seen the horrors wrought by the two – and Nori let out a low whistle. While he’d been talking Bombur had brought them food and ale, and when he was done talking Thorin took a grateful sip of his drink. He finished by telling them of his and Bilbo’s words about killing him.

Nori sat back in his seat, eyebrows almost disappearing in his fancily styled hair he raised them so high. “So Balin has given his blessing to this?”

“No,” Thorin admitted. “But he hasn’t expressly forbidden it, either. If we can do it without it bringing more attention to ourselves then he will not stop us.”

Beside him, Dwalin made a small noise of triumph. He wanted Bolg dead as much as anyone. “Shame it’s not the father too, though,” he said. “Age hasn’t mellowed the Defiler one jot.”

“His time will come,” Thorin promised him, hoping it was a promise he could keep. He looked to Nori. “Will you be able to find out information? Where he’ll be, when? When we might be able to get to him?”

“Of course,” the other man said. “I’ll get back to you in a couple of days.”

“Thank you,” Thorin said gravely. Pundurûn was a tricky character – while one of the Sons, he’d been a Thief for longer than Thorin had known him; he might wear the blue cloak of the Sons but Nori would always be a Thief first and foremost. Thorin didn’t think he’d betray them ever for his own sake – he loved his brothers too deeply for that – but should the Thieves’ Guild be threatened Thorin would be hard pressed to know where Nori’s loyalties would lie.

He was interrupted from his musings by a voice. “You’re looking thoughtful,” Bilbo said, appearing by their table. Thorin gave a start and stood, surprised by Bilbo’s presence. He looked at him for perhaps a moment longer than necessary, as he felt Dwalin and Nori’s eyes on him and he forced himself to sit down, slowly and nonchalantly.

“What are you doing here?” he asked as Bilbo took the seat opposite, next to Nori.

“You told me to meet you here,” Bilbo said. “Or did you forget?”

“No, no, I remembered. I meant why so early? I thought you’d be a couple of hours yet.”

Bilbo gave a shrug. “Some of my errands were over quicker than anticipated. But there’s one thing I’d like you to accompany me with.”

“There is?” Thorin asked, surprised Bilbo would let them in on one of his secrets. Bilbo nodded.

“I want you to meet someone. I’ve met your allies, and I thought it was time for you to meet one of the Children’s.” He smiled. “I’m sure he’s just dying to meet a Son.”

Thorin just nodded awkwardly, unsure what to say next. Nori piped up with an offer of lunch before they left, which Bilbo accepted gratefully – the broth Óin had insisted on feeding him while on bed-rest wasn’t enough to satisfy his appetite.

When he was done he looked at them all. “You can all come, if you’d like.” Nori declined the offer, preferring to stay with his Thieves, but Dwalin joined the group. Thorin was surprised – aside from himself and Bifur, Dwalin was one of the least talkative people he knew, and yet here he was talking and laughing amicably with Bilbo Baggins, Child of Yavanna, as they walked the underground tunnels in the direction of Greenwood. It was surprising, but what was perhaps even more so was that more than once Thorin found himself annoyed by their harmless banter. He couldn’t put his finger on _why_ it bothered him so, however, only that it did.

“Where did you say you were taking us again?” he cut in after Dwalin said something that made Bilbo laugh.

Bilbo glanced back at him, looking at him strangely – almost as if he’d forgotten Thorin was there. “I didn’t,” he said. “We need Apothecary Street.”

Thorin motioned that they should keep going and after that Bilbo’s and Dwalin’s conversation was more subdued. Eventually they reached the door that brought them to the surface five minutes away from Greenwood’s street of apothecaries and herbalists, physicians and doctors.

The Apothecary Street was busy but Bilbo led them quickly and surely to one shop near the end of the long street. All of the businesses had funny smells coming from them, most hot and spicy or sharp and bitter, but a few of them appeared to have foul-smelling concoctions being brewed inside, the fetid odours following them in curling fingers clutching at their cloaks. At one point Thorin had to cover his mouth with his fur collar to stop himself gagging.

Bilbo seemed unperturbed by it all, but even he gave a little sigh of relief when they reached fresh air again. They finally reached the shop and Thorin took a moment to inspect it. While most of the others were painted green with various flowers and herbs painted on the signs, with names such as ‘The Herb Garden’ or ‘Gelion’s Potions and Cures’, the one Bilbo was headed to was slightly different, and a little strange, if he was honest. Named _Vigorous Spring,_ the sign showed some woodland creature surrounded by trees. Around the sign were woven branches of real leaves, trailing down as if from a hanging basket.

“You should see it in autumn,” Bilbo said, following Thorin’s gaze. “He finds sprigs of berries and uses them – it’s quite a sight. Of course, most people prefer it in winter, when it’s the mistletoe.” Thorin stepped back at that, making Bilbo laugh. The Child moved forward to enter, gesturing they should follow him. “Come on.”

Thorin did so, a little apprehensively, glad at least for the lack of eye-watering stinks. The small bell above the door gave a soft tinkle as they stepped in, muted in this quiet space. Inside the shop, there were shelves and shelves of glass bottles and vials, filled with various dried plants or potions. By the window by the door, the small windowsill was lined with living plants, shifting lazily in the breeze from the open door. It smelt like a mixture of cloves and mint and other things Thorin couldn’t place.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” a voice said from behind, making Thorin jump. It was a quiet voice, soft-spoken, but it caught their attention well enough. The man it belonged to was tall, very tall, with long blonde hair falling straight to his waist, so pale it was almost white. He didn’t dress like most of the other apothecaries, who were mostly quacks or crooks or worse, a bit of both, who mostly wore brown robes or dark green to show their profession at a glance. No, this man wore loose robes of a grey velvet, so he was obviously a man of some affluence. His eyes widened when he saw Bilbo and his smooth face, seemingly untouched by age and emotion, broke into a smile and he gave a small bow. “Master Baggins. It is good indeed to see you.”

“You as well, Thranduil,” Bilbo said, returning the gesture.

“And who are these?” Thranduil asked, frowning slightly. His eyes took in Thorin and Dwalin’s blue cloaks and the swords at their hips. “I hadn’t thought to see a Child in the company of the Sons of Durin,” he said pointedly to Bilbo.

While Thorin was concerned that the man knew them for what they were, Bilbo gave a small chuckle. “Neither would I have, if you’d asked me two weeks ago. This is Thranduil, an old colleague of mine,” he finished to Thorin and Dwalin, not saying their names.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” the tall, pale man said as Thorin nodded his head to him. Thranduil smiled a little, his eyes belying his serene exterior and Thorin wondered if it was to do with him. The glint was unsettling. “Well, it is not for me to question you,” he said to Bilbo, “other than to ask if you’re here for the usual?”

“No,” Bilbo said, stepping closer to the counter. “I need something a little stronger.”

Thranduil’s eyes widened in recognition and Thorin swore there was a hint of excitement in his voice as he said, “Of course. I’ll just be a moment.”

He slipped back behind a dark curtain which Thorin hadn’t noticed before and Bilbo turned back to them, wearing a small smile. It dropped a little when he saw Thorin’s face.

“He knows who I am,” Thorin said in a hushed tone. “I saw it, he knows me. He’s going to betray you.”

“He is _not_ going to betray _us,_ ” Bilbo corrected him irritably. “I’ve known Thranduil since I first became Head of my Order and he’s never once given me cause to doubt him. And what makes you think he knows you? Did your family ever venture into Greenwood? Even had you, it was years ago now, Thorin. You were young, just a man. I doubt you look the same.”

“He knows me,” Thorin maintained stubbornly, but it was difficult to argue his point in a whisper and was disheartened when Dwalin made a face telling him to drop it. Just in time, as Thranduil reappeared at that moment with a box in his hands and a child roughly Fíli’s age at his side.

“I have them here,” Thranduil said to Bilbo. He put the box down heavily on the counter and took the smaller one from the lad too. The boy began helping Thranduil unpack them, an array of vials and little bottles appearing on the counter. Some were made of dark brown coloured glass, hiding their contents; others were blown in fancy shapes with decorative swirls, filled with powders of rust red, snow white and – the most ominous to Thorin – a deep dark purple, the colour of the midnight sky; yet more had pale potions swirling in the gilded stoppered bottles.

“What are these?” Dwalin asked, stepping closer.

“Poisons,” Thranduil said simply. “The rarer, more potent kind.” The look he shot at Thorin and Dwalin told them he wouldn’t hesitate to slip them some. Dwalin retreated a step and Thranduil looked back at his vials. The boy was studying them carefully through eyes as blue as Thranduil’s; they had the same face shape, Thorin decided, and the colouring was too similar to be chance.

Bilbo was muttering to himself as he looked through the bottles, holding them up to the light and inspecting them closely. “Where did you get hold of this?” he asked in an awed voice. Thorin glanced at the small bottle in Bilbo’s hands. It was clear crystal, coloured red toward the bottom; there were scales etched onto the glass and the top was shaped like a dragon, a fiery bright red cork in its mouth. The liquid inside was a cloudy white. Just on its own, it was unnerving; the wonder in Bilbo’s voice made it fearsome. “Dragon’s Venom is almost impossible to come by.”

“A trader,” Thranduil admitted, “from the south. From Haradwaith. No doubt it’s breaking all sorts of laws but I got it for you, in case you came calling.”

Bilbo’s eyebrows rose. “But it must have cost you a small fortune!”

Thorin was still reeling from _dragon’s venom._ There were no such creatures. “Dragon’s Venom?” he asked the room at large.

“From the dragonsnakes of the south,” Bilbo told him. “Their venom can be extracted, though it is difficult and costly. But as a poison it’s...incredible. It only works when injected into the blood directly...” Bilbo fingered his sleeve, where Thorin knew his darts were hidden. His face was far too blissful while talking about poison for Thorin’s liking. “But when it is, death is incredibly quick but painful. First you get cramps, then your body starts to shut down, organ by organ. You die when the poison reaches your lungs and you can no longer breathe, your blood turned thick and sluggish. All told, it takes about ten minutes.” Thorin gaped, and beside him Dwalin was still, as if Bilbo would stab the contents of that bottle into him right there and then.

“A knife to the heart is so much cleaner,” was all he said, looking at Bilbo warily. “Or a sword stroke to the neck.”

“It’s true,” Bilbo said, setting the bottle down, to Thorin’s relief. “Dragon’s Venom is nasty stuff. I’ve seen someone die by it only once and it was terrible – he kept clawing at his own throat, coughing up his lungs, body racked by the cramps – it was awful. I’d only use it on someone who truly deserved it. Someone like Smaug,” he said, dropping his voice towards the end, so low Thorin almost didn’t catch it. “Not like moon powder. Sweet-tasting, it’s almost undetectable... It slows your heart gradually until it stops. Some call it Daughter’s Sorrow.”

“Daughter’s Sorrow?”

“It’s often used to ease the elderly’s passing. Fathers with great hacking coughs from a lifetime working in the cold, mothers with consumption... It’s almost a mercy to go like this, when sleeping; not gasping and clawing for breath.”

A heavy silence followed Bilbo’s words. He was holding a small bottle with a cork sealed with pale blue wax, muted blue powder inside, cradling it in a palm.

“You know your poisons,” Dwalin’s rough voice sounded, loud in the quiet shop.

Bilbo started, as if coming back to himself. He gave a vague smile. “Of course. I learned from my mother; she was the best herbalist among the Children, especially concerning poisons. She wasn’t called Belladonna for nothing.”

Thranduil gave a small chuckle but Thorin and Dwalin glanced at each other, confused.

“Belladonna?” Bilbo repeated, seemingly amazed at their blank faces and glanced at Thranduil. “You might know it as Deadly Nightshade?”

Thorin _did_ know of that plant, one of the deadliest poisons and one which the ladies of the Citadel would often dilute and turn into eye drops, which dilated their pupils. Bilbo just nodded along, but what annoyed Thorin was the smirk he and Thranduil shared, as if Thorin were some ignorant fool.

He wanted to leave then and started to get impatient while Bilbo chose his poisons and tried to encourage Thranduil to let him pay him.

“Pay me for the Maiden’s Tears, but the Dragon’s Venom is a gift,” Thranduil said while Bilbo protested that it was far too expensive for a gift.

“Take it,” Thranduil ordered him eventually. “You never know when you’ll need it.”

At last Bilbo relented and slipped his new acquisitions into small pouches on his belt and the three of them started to return to the base. They walked mostly in silence, though Thorin couldn’t tell why Dwalin wasn’t engaging Bilbo in conversation as he’d done on the outward journey; perhaps because, like Thorin, he’d forgotten just how dangerous Bilbo was. Hidden beneath his curls and his dimples and friendly overtures was an _assassin,_ something they all seemed to forget.

An assassin who could kill them all without them even knowing it.

Yes, Bilbo Baggins was dangerous. Dwalin was right to be wary. But Bilbo would learn that Thorin could be just as dangerous, and far more intimidating.

***

Bilbo wasn’t blind; he noticed the wary looks Thorin and Dwalin would occasionally send in his direction on the way back, and he knew it to be because of the poisons he carried in his robes. He’d been carrying various venins and toxins around the entire time, not that they knew that, but he couldn’t help himself from feeling glad they’d finally realised quite what he was.

After all, one could block a sword swing or dodge a knife, but poison... Poison could creep up on you, and the victim would never know until it was too late. That made it a hundred times more dangerous. There were tales of girls in the south who fed on poisons since childhood until their very skin was poisonous too. They could never be kissed or touched – one kiss from a Poison Maiden would be enough to give a man cramps and sickness; to lie with her would mean death.

Once they were back in the underground quarters, Bilbo excused himself and shut himself in his chamber, ever so carefully making his concoctions of powders and herbs, dipping his newer darts into the deadly solutions. Earlier that morning he’d collected some more from the Starkindler’s temple; he would make his own, but with no trees in the city he’d had to rely on ones brought from the Shire. Living wood was best for their darts.

The rest of the day passed without incident, and if Thorin and Dwalin’s demeanours towards him were slightly chillier than before, it didn’t concern him. The next few days passed in much the same manner as they waited for news from Nori and his Thieves. One evening Bilbo approached Thorin after spending some time earlier with Kíli. The fire had been banked for the night and the room was dim; Thorin was staring into the orange ashes, brooding.

“We will get him, you know,” Bilbo said, startling him. “Him and Azog and Smaug. We’ll kill them all, eventually.”

Thorin’s eyes followed him into the room and he stayed upright, not sinking back into his chair. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You weren’t listening for it,” Bilbo said, taking the chair opposite. Thorin said nothing, only looked at him warily, and Bilbo threw his hands up in the air in an expressive gesture. “Lady’s sake, just because you now know I carry poisons around, you’re suddenly afraid of me?”

Thorin snorted, his eyes finally flicking away from Bilbo and he sat back. “Not likely.”

“Good,” Bilbo said. “Your unceasing conversation was getting really quite tiresome.” He looked at Thorin pointedly and the Son gave a small nod, as if accepting his point. There was silence for a while longer until Bilbo broke it. “I didn’t just come here to interrupt you,” he said. “I have a proposition I think you might consider.”

“Oh?” Thorin asked, looking half surprised and half wary.

“Yes. I’ve been speaking with Kíli during our practice and...he misses Fíli, Thorin. I know why you keep them apart, and I understand that, but he’s lonely here, even with you and Bofur and Ori. He misses his sister.”

Thorin’s face had hardened at the mention of his niece and nephew. “We keep them apart for their own safety, Master Baggins. I don’t believe you have a right to a say in the matter.” His voice was sharp.

“Of course I don’t,” Bilbo agreed. “But here’s where I want to make you an offer. A cousin of mine has a young son, an only child. They have always wanted more, but due to...complications, Frodo will remain an only child. My cousin and his wife are not Children of Yavanna but remain under our protection, as family always are. I merely wonder if you and Dís might consider letting Fíli and Kíli stay with them for a week or two, to be together again for a little while and have some time away from the city and the assassins.”

Thorin gave him a hard look. “They’d be no better than hostages.”

Bilbo returned the glare, his eyes icy. “I’m your ally, not your enemy, Thorin Oakenshield. What need would I have for your niece and nephew as hostages?”

Thorin stared at him a little longer, neither breaking eye contact, until they heard the sound of someone moving about in the corridor and they both started, looking away.

Thorin sighed, then gave a short nod and a shrug. “I’ll speak to Dís about it.”

Bilbo doubted he would, but at least the offer was there. With a nod he got to his feet and turned and left, leaving Thorin to stare into the flames a little longer.

On the third day as they waited for news, Bilbo sat with Thorin in Balin’s study looking at maps of the city, when the door burst open and a woman appeared in the doorway, her hair falling in disarray around her face and face stricken. Immediately they stood up, glancing at each other as they did so.

“Are you Thorin Oakenshield?” she gasped out, out of breath. Her clothes were messy, as if pulled on in a hurry – the stays undone, the petticoats rucked up around her legs and bodice askew. Thorin gave a curt nod and the woman gave a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank the Maker. Your sister sent me – it’s Fíli–”

“What’s happened?” Thorin asked, the dread in his voice turning Bilbo’s insides to ice.

“She’s – she’s gone,” the woman said, holding back tears. “They took her at the docks, while Mín was getting food–”

“Who took her?”  Thorin demanded, cutting through her fumbling explanation. “Who’s taken my niece?”

“The men on the boat,” she said, wringing her hands. “I don’t _know,_ they didn’t see which boat it was–”

Thorin didn’t listen to the rest, instead storming towards the door and pushing past her. She stumbled out of his way, the tears escaping as she looked at Bilbo desperately.

“Please, sir, we didn’t mean–”

“It’s alright,” Bilbo said soothingly, holding his hands out in a placating gesture. He rested a gentle hand on her shoulder, trying to soothe the woman and stop the crying. Trying to get details from a sobbing woman was like trying to get a man to admit he was lost. It seemed to do the trick and her sobs turned to hiccups. “Now, where were you when Fíli disappeared?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle.

“At the docks,” she said, sniffing. “She’d said she wanted to see the foreign boats, so we went to the New Port–”

“The New Port?” he repeated urgently. “That’s definitely where you were when she went missing?”

The girl nodded, clearly distraught and terrified, and he made himself be gentle. “Go back to the Pink Sapphire,” he said gently. “Tell Dís that we’ll get her daughter back.”

“She’s already out looking, sir,” she said.

“Then you go back and make sure there’s plenty of blankets and warm tea for when we get her back,” he said. Blankets shouldn’t be hard to come by in a brothel. “And say nothing to anyone else of this.” He dreaded what Kíli might do if he heard his sister was missing. The girl nodded and hurried off. Bilbo took one last look at the map before grabbing his cloak and running after her.

Thorin had run off ahead, probably to the main docks; Bilbo headed in the same direction at first, doing his best not to trip on the rubble in the tunnels, and surfaced in Lake-town, the slums of the Dale district. The main harbour in Arda was at the border between Dale and Gondor, but the New Port – so called because it was built after the main one due to an increase in trade, though by now it was at least twenty years old – fed off the River Running , in Lake-town. It was mostly used by poorer merchants and tradesmen. While not miles from the main harbour, Thorin could be wasting precious time searching there if Fíli had been taken in the New Port.

He _had_ to find Fíli; he didn’t know if her abductors knew of her identity or not but should they find out, the Sons would be doomed. The ransom they could ask for if it became known they held Thorin Oakenshield’s niece...

It seemed that everyone was out in the streets today. The Lake-town area was built partially over the wide mouth of the River Running, the wooden buildings tall and built on stilts over the water. While normally Bilbo admired this concept of construction, today it was a nuisance as the platforms for pedestrians were dangerously narrow in places and it hampered his passage. Finally he gave in to desperation and scaled one of the wooden buildings, right up to the rooftop, and ran as fast as he could towards the New Port, hardly having to jump from roof to roof in some places, the alleys were so narrow.

Finally he reached the New Port, also built on stilts above the calm waters of the mouth of the river – they’d still have to sail just a little further downstream to get to the bay – and he watched from his vantage point to see if he could see where Fíli possibly could be. The ships were all poorer vessels, manned by ragtag crews in dirty, scruffy slacks – not like some of the ships in the main harbour, where the crews wore pristine uniforms of white linen. Most were fishing boats or cattle carriers, perhaps from the islands of Numenor to the south.

Nothing was immediately obvious, however, and Bilbo felt bile rise in his throat that he might have failed Fíli. He might have failed Thorin. He knew the children should have gone to stay with Drogo and Prim in the Shire.

Then he saw it: the very last boat in the quay, a small fast craft, was hastily pulling out from its dock, sails up and already moving. It couldn’t hurt to look, was Bilbo’s thought. Better to check than let it get away with Fíli on board, never to be seen again.

He slipped down, quick and agile, and threw himself towards the nearest fishing boat. The small crew all started as he jumped on board. Bilbo pulled out a gold coin from his pocket, their eyes widening at the sight.

“Each if you will get one if you can get me to that boat before it reaches the sea,” he said clearly but fast; there was an agonising moment of hesitation before the captain started calling out orders and the boat was being rowed out to catch up with the other one. The one they were chasing was moving fast and Bilbo thought they might lose it, but the fishermen were strong and they were soon pulling up alongside the other craft. It was long and sat low in the water; obviously foreign. Bilbo leapt the small gap between the boats, praying he wouldn’t land in the sea – his cloak would surely drag him down and drown him – and paused to get his bearings while the new crew froze.

One look at the crew close up told Bilbo everything he needed to know: they were Dunlendings. Pirates from the Isles of Dunland to the west, who often raided the shores and coastal towns, and docked in cities under stolen flags of other nations to hide their identity while they took on provisions.  They often took on girls, too.

“Good afternoon,” he began pleasantly. “I think you’ve got a relative of mine on board. I’m sure it was completely accidental...” He touched his knives, keeping them hidden. “I’ll overlook this mistake if you give her back right now.”

One particularly ugly man with a flat face and large sneering mouth – most likely the captain, judging by the gold embroidery on his once-fine jacket – stepped forward. “We en’t got no girls on board, though I surely wish we did,” he said, his voice a growl. He gave a tittering laugh after that, and a couple of the crew members laughed along with him. Bilbo felt sick.

“Then you won’t mind if I check the ship myself?” he asked, heading towards the hatch leading below deck. “I’m here on the Citadel’s business.”

The captain stood in front of him, barring his way. He jabbed Bilbo in the chest with a meaty finger. “We en’t got nothing to hide.”

“So you won’t mind if I go down there, then,” Bilbo said firmly, stepping around him. Another bulky, swarthy man blocked his way too, a curved sword glittering at his side. “You’re not proving your innocence,” he said icily.

“We don’t want no nosy ferrets poking around our ship.”

“Well then,” Bilbo said, keeping his voice light. “I’m going to have to kill you.”

No one said anything or moved for a few long moments, but then the captain started chuckling and it turned into a full-bodied roar; the rest of the crew joined in their captain’s mirth. Bilbo paused for just a moment before flicking a knife out and sticking it right through the captain’s throat, making his laughter turn to wet choking as he coughed up blood, red stickiness pouring down his neck.

The entire crew went still as he dropped to the floor and Bilbo bent to retrieve the knife, wiping it clean before he straightened. “Have I made myself clear?” he asked. “Will you let me into the hold?” No one said anything; the only answer was the ringing of swords being pulled out of old leather scabbards and a wordless yell as they began to run at him.

All manner of curses sounded in his head but he settled for backing up to the side of the boat and onto the edge, away from the flashing blades, leaping up into the rigging. He really wasn’t well equipped to deal with twenty bloodthirsty Dunlendings – but if he could get high enough he could try and pick them off one by one. But during that time one of them might get to Fíli.

He was saved, however, by an answering holler from an approaching boat and Bilbo might have sagged with relief had he not been clinging to the rigging for dear life. Added to the fact that if he dropped the pirates would be on him in moments, he also didn’t like heights when there wasn’t something solid beneath him, and the rigging was swaying dangerously.

Thorin leapt aboard from the boat that drew up on the other side of the pirates’ boat, his eyes meeting Bilbo’s just for a moment. Dwalin was with him – Thorin had obviously fetched him before he left – and he too climbed aboard with surprising grace for one so bulky. The Dunlendings surveyed them warily.

“If you’ve got my niece, I’ll kill you, you bastards,” Thorin said, his voice brittle with anger, and with a roar he and Dwalin leapt forward and began their deadly dance. They worked standing back to back, blocking and hacking and slashing in tandem, protecting each other. Bilbo picked off the ones furthest away who were yet to cause trouble with his darts; not only was there less chance of hitting the Sons should they move, but those pirates would be fresh while the Sons would be worn out.

Once they were dealt with Bilbo slipped down from the rigging, dodging bloody corpses and bodies twitching as the poison took them until he reached the hatch. He slipped inside, gagging at the smell.

“Fíli?” he called out. “Fíli, are you here?”

“Mister Bilbo?” a small wavering voice said in the blackness.

“Fíli!” he cried, relief coursing through him. “Where are you?”

“We’re here,” she said, her voice sounding thick with tears. “At the end, there’s a cell–” Bilbo followed her voice and located the cell, a tiny thing with wrought iron bars set into the wooden door. “It’s locked,” she said. She was peering through the bars, dirty but seemingly unharmed.

“Are you hurt?” he asked fiercely.

She shook her head. “No. But Éowyn is – they kicked her arm, Mister Bilbo, I heard it snap–”

Now Bilbo listened he could hear the faint sound of stifled sobs and he gentled his voice. “Is it just you two?”

“Yes,” Fíli nodded.

“I’m going to get you both out,” he said softly, and began studying the lock.

“Uncle could knock the door down,” Fíli suggested but Bilbo shook his head.

“Your uncle’s a little busy killing Dunlending pirates,” he said. “Besides, the lock’s easy enough. Shouldn’t take more than a–”

A sudden growl at the hatch made Bilbo start and Fíli scramble away from the cell door as a pirate dropped down the hatch, advancing menacingly towards Bilbo. Bilbo pulled out his knife and threw it so that cut straight through his throat, lodging in his windpipe and, much like his captain, the pirate fell to ground drowning in his own blood.

He looked back at the lock and, using a thin end of one of his darts and a bit of fiddling and twisting, he managed to get it to click open. Fíli hurried out but Bilbo went in, the dirty straw – evidently not changed since its last occupants vacated the premises – cracking under his boots, and helped Éowyn to her feet. She was perhaps a year older than Fíli with pale blonde hair and her chin set in determination.

“Can I help you up?” Bilbo asked gently, watching as she cradled her right arm. She bit her lip before taking his hand. “How did you get hurt?’ he asked her as they made their way to the hatch, where the sounds of fighting had slowed down.

“I tried to fight back when they put us in there and they kicked me,” she said. She was more soft-spoken than Fíli but still brave. “They took me from my brother.” Her eyes were filling with tears.

“We’ll get you back to him, I promise,” he said and she nodded.

A dark shadow covered the hatch and they all flinched before it spoke. “Fíli? Bilbo?” Thorin’s voice was raw and hoarse.

“Uncle,” Fíli cried, hurrying ahead. “Uncle, I’m here, I’m so sorry–”

“Fíli!” Thorin’s arms reached down into the hold and helped Fíli up, closing about her in a tight embrace for a long minute as she clutched at him tightly and he made sure she was really there. “Are you alright?” he asked and she nodded, sniffing.

“Thorin,” Bilbo called up to him. “They had another girl. She’s got a broken arm.” Thorin’s face appeared again, backlit as he peered down into the hold. He reached down to help the girl out and Bilbo was glad to see that he held her gently, not wanting to jostle her arm. Bilbo pulled himself out, looking over the deck of the boat in distaste. It was red and slick with blood.

“We’d do well to get away from here and soon,” Dwalin said gruffly. “They’ve got a guard boat coming out this way.”

“Now all the fighting’s done,” Thorin said acidly.

“Thorin, Dwalin, take Fíli and get back to the Sapphire. I’ll deal with the guards and get Éowyn home.” He gave the girl a small smile and she returned it bravely, though it was slightly wobbly. Thorin looked at him for a long moment before getting back on the boat he and Dwalin arrived in and hiding as it took them back to land. Bilbo tossed a gold coin to each of the crew members – a couple of whom had helped in fighting the pirates, it seemed – and stood with a comforting hand on Éowyn’s shoulder as the guard boat arrived. They didn’t know him, unlike Thorin who was a wanted man; he’d be able to explain the...unfortunate situation they found themselves in.

***

It was dark by the time Thorin was on his own again. He’d taken Fíli back to the Pink Sapphire as Bilbo had said, where they’d had blankets and cups of tea – no doubt Bilbo’s influence there – and he’d held Fíli while they waited for Dís to arrive. There’d been tears when they reunited, mother and daughter.

“You found her, Thorin,” Dís said, smiling through the tears. “You brought her back to me.”

“No,” he’d said, shaking his head. “Bilbo found her.”

They’d gone back to the Sons’ hideout once Fíli had fallen asleep and put her in Kíli’s bed after she woke long enough to ask for him; the boy’s hand found hers almost instantly and Thorin had felt his chest tighten. He’d taken Dís to one side to tell her of Bilbo’s proposition, and now at last he was on his own in his room, just about ready to fall asleep where he stood. Fearing for Fíli had taken it out of him and he felt old and weary.

But he had one more job to do before he’d let sleep take him, and found himself knocking on Bilbo’s door.

Bilbo had undressed since he’d got back and his robes – bloodstained and dirty – lay in a corner of the room while he wore a white linen shirt and loose-fitting trousers to his calves. He wore no shoes, and Thorin was surprised at how big his feet were considering he was...so short.

“I would have come sooner,” Thorin said as Bilbo gestured he should come in. “But I had to speak with my sister.”

Bilbo’s gaze sharpened as he took the seat opposite Thorin by the glowing remains of the fire. He was slouched and it struck Thorin that this was the first time he’d seen the Child seemingly completely at ease. “Oh?”

“Thank you,” he said first and Bilbo smiled. “Thank you for saving her. I don’t know what I’d have done if–”

“You saved her,” Bilbo interrupted him. “You fought those pirates. I just found the right boat.”

“You did more than that,” Thorin said softly. Maker Below, the man had been about to take on a whole boat of rabid Dunlending pirates for a girl he barely knew. No matter what happened now, Thorin could no longer distrust Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. He’d put himself at risk for Thorin’s kin, killed for Thorin’s kin; the blood bond between them meant Thorin had no more excuses. He was surprised to see Bilbo flush a little.

“You’d have done the same, were our positions reversed,” Bilbo said. “I hope.”

“Yes,” Thorin said, “I would.” He knew he would, too, if it ever came to that. Bilbo met his gaze, a slight frown creasing his forehead before he looked away back at the fire. “I have an answer for your proposition,” Thorin said finally to break the silence that had fallen.

“You have?”

Thorin nodded.  “I’ve spoken to Dís and...we think it would be a good idea. Just for a week or so, at first, but it might be...prudent, after today’s events.”

Bilbo smiled. “Thank you,” he said softly. A small smile was tugging at his lips and the light from the dying fire was gilding his skin with gold and Thorin’s mouth was suddenly dry; he stood quickly.

“I think once again we must thank you, Master Baggins,” he said as he made his way to the door. He paused there, with one hand on the door handle. “Goodnight,” he offered quietly, and left the room, shutting the door gently behind him. It was only when he was back in his own room trying to sleep that he realised Bilbo’s shirt hadn’t been completely done up, his neck and the start of his chest exposed; perhaps what was more unsettling was the fact that Thorin had memorised the sight of that skin limned with gold.

Bilbo was treated as a veritable hero the next day, which of course he was, in all honesty – Thorin had charged headlong into the mess and had missed the mark completely. It was Bilbo who’d pinpointed where Fíli might be, not Thorin, acting on instinct like a bull faced with red silk.

Nori arrived at breakfast and after being filled in with the details, he pulled Bilbo and Thorin to one side.

“You know it’s the Feast of Starlight next week?” he asked. Thorin nodded. While mostly celebrated in Greenwood and the Rivendell area, it was a city-wide event, a holiday for all, and the week-end was full of festivities from dawn to dusk. “Bolg is hosting his own party at his manse during the festivities – for those rich and debauched like him. We overheard his servants talking about it – there’ll be drink and lots of it, girls and lots of them...substances, and lots of them.”

Bilbo and Thorin glanced at each other at this news. “What of the guards?” Bilbo asked. “How many will there be?”

“We don’t know for certain, but a good few,” Nori said. “But I don’t suppose they’ll like being on guard duty while everyone else is making merry, so to speak, so I’m sure some of ‘em will be about as useful as a drunk guard can be.”

“Thank you, Nori,” Thorin said, and Nori grinned at nodded before backing away to join his brothers. Thorin and Bilbo looked at each other again and Thorin saw the glint of excitement in Bilbo’s eyes he’d grown accustomed to seeing before missions.

“If everyone’s going to be drunk or high–” Bilbo started.

“Or shagging like rabbits,” Thorin put in, and couldn’t stop the smile he felt spreading across his face as Bilbo gave a snort and dissolved into laughter.

“Or shagging like rabbits,” Bilbo agreed once he’d calmed down, though his lips still twitched with mirth. “I don’t think we’ll have too much trouble. Not if we’re quick.”

“Especially not with a little...assistance,” Thorin said, and went on to explain.

In the intervening five days until the festivities – or, as Thorin liked to think of it, the day he’d finally give Bolg what he deserved – Thorin and Dís took Fíli and Kíli to the Shire, Bilbo telling the children of all the things they could do there. They were the first and only Sons to be allowed into the Shire and Thorin felt the eyes of the Children peering from the round windows as their party passed, and he had no doubt it was Bilbo’s presence only that kept him from becoming skewered by green wood darts emblazoned with Yavanna’s fruits.

There were tears when it finally came to the time to part, and while the couple they were to stay with seemed nice enough that Thorin’s heart was eased slightly, it still hurt to leave his niece and nephew behind in a stranger’s hands, even if the young dark-haired boy peering out from behind his mother’s skirts did appear to catch their attention. Dís held his arm the entire walk back, clutching it tightly, though she was now dry-eyed.

Thorin had to trust Bilbo. He wouldn’t save Fíli if he was only going to hurt her or kill her himself, though still a voice whispered that perhaps they’d be used against them as hostages should the Sons become...a nuisance. But Thorin forced himself to ignore the voice; Bilbo had done only good things so far and he had to trust that his intentions here were also good.

It felt so much quieter without Kíli running around with his bow or taking lessons with Balin, and when he went to check on Dís at the Pink Sapphire he missed Fíli flinging herself at him and making witty comments that sounded so like Dís. Bilbo brought letters from them after they’d been there three days and they settled Thorin’s fears at least a little. They were not clamouring to come home, at least. Bilbo offered to deposit a reply and Thorin and Dís took him up on his offer, though Thorin did wonder at how quickly messages seemed to be passed between Children, despite their different locations.

“That would be telling,” was all Bilbo said when Thorin questioned him on it.

They also sorted what they’d need for their _plan,_ and Bofur presented them with masks of pale white, blank faces staring up at them. Masks were a tradition at the Feast of Starlight, especially when decorated with moonstones among the rich folk and sequins among those less so. Thorin’s was lined with swirls of chips of aqua inlaid into the ceramic mask. It was pretty enough and would keep his face suitably hidden. Bilbo’s however – when he held it up to his face Thorin momentarily lost track of what he was saying. Bilbo’s mask was of peridot, tiny gems lining the eyes and swirling around the white face. It was...breath-taking, before Thorin came to himself and forced his mind back to the matter at hand.

Finally it was the day of the Feast of Starlight and as dusk began to fall, Bilbo and Thorin started to make their way to The Pink Sapphire. Before they left, however, they were stopped by Balin and Thorin hunched his shoulders as he called their names, hoping he wasn’t going to stop them. He didn’t, thankfully.

“Just be careful,” was all he said. He paused. “And good luck.”

With that they were off and they soon reached the brothel, where a group of courtesans in similar masks were gathered, though their attire was a lot more...revealing than their robes. They ran through the plan one more time before setting off, night having truly fallen.

Music sounded in the streets and people were dancing and carousing everywhere. Nobody looked twice at the group of courtesans fawning over the two men in their midst, though a few drunks did call out offers to the ladies. Thorin was mostly focused on getting to Bolg’s manse in the Citadel, but he couldn’t help but prickle with irritation as the courtesans touched Bilbo, laughed with Bilbo, angled their bodies provocatively at Bilbo. He wasn’t jealous, of course not, but could they not see that now was not the time for flirting?

He kept his stony silence as they made their way through the city, large white light lamps lining the streets and cheap ale and mead being sold on every street corner. The sky was clear of cloud and the vaulted ceiling of stars above their heads looked down on the people celebrating in their honour. Really it was just an excuse for everyone to get absolutely sloshed.

They reached the gate to the Citadel where the guards were on duty. Most of them appeared to already have a girl on their laps or pressed up close and their protest at the group’s entering was half-hearted at best. Thorin just tossed them a coin each and they were allowed on their way.

The Citadel was just as bad as the poorer quarters, except here the prostitutes wore velvets and silks rather than wool and cotton. It was only when he spotted a wedding ring flashing on one of the women’s hands that he realised most of them probably weren’t prostitutes. He was grateful for the mask which hid his curled lip as he regarded the debauchery of the classes that thought themselves so far above the poorer folk and in fact had baser morals than many that Thorin knew.

While music came from every corner of the city, it was obvious when they were drawing near to Bolg’s manse. There was a stream of nobles in dishevelled finery and varying states of drunkenness. He felt Bilbo draw ever so slightly closer as they approached the grand house. It was a huge building of grey stone, absolutely massive and lit with so many lamps that it was almost as bright as day. The music was loud here and they could hear people laughing and drinking and coupling.

There were guards at the gate but they looked at the cohort of courtesans and gestured in a bored manner that they could go on in.

The festivities were mostly outside under the star-spangled heavens and Thorin and Bilbo and their escort moved around the side of the house, following the grey stone path round to the back garden. It wasn’t much of a garden – even the Durins’ garden had been better than this and Thrain had held no love for plants. There was too much stone, grey rock walls and a few trees and bushes in this great space.

Thorin felt himself tense when he heard a great roaring laugh echoing across the garden and looked over to see Bolg, his squashed face red with alcohol and his eyes bulging out more than usual. He was even uglier when drunk. Bilbo gave a nod and a couple of the courtesans broke away, pushing through the crowds to get to the man while they followed more slowly. Thorin touched his knives, his hidden blade... He’d just have to get within a few feet of the man before plunging a knife deep into him. If the courtesans could distract him and the men around him for long enough, Thorin could have slipped back into the crowds and be away before they noticed he was dead.

But as they drew closer he felt Bilbo’s hand come to rest on his arm and felt his stomach sink in dread. Behind Bolg were two guards, absolutely still and stone cold sober. As they watched, the courtesans tried to distract them, using as much of their feminine charm as they could, but they were shrugged off coldly. When one of the girls took a more direct approach, the guard pushed her away so forcefully she was knocked into another guest, this one absolutely drunk, who promptly took her in his arms and made a lewd gesture. Her eyes found Thorin’s before she was whisked away. He just hoped she took a goodly amount of his gold, the drunk fool.

He looked at Bilbo, slowing down as they drew ever closer to Bolg. Thorin’s heart was thumping loudly now, mind searching for alternatives.

“Thorin, you’ll never get away with it with them there,” Bilbo hissed, his eyes flashing as green as the chips of peridot on his mask.

Thorin laid a hand on Bilbo’s, still resting on his arm as if to stop him. “I know,” he said softly. His stomach and heart twisted painfully as he spoke the next words. “But you could, if you use your darts.”

Bilbo looked at him – it was disconcerting to see a blank face but eyes wide in surprise. “Thorin, I – I can’t. We can wait, there’ll always be another chance for you–”

“No,” Thorin said. “It doesn’t matter who does it, but he needs to die. You do it.”

“But...” Bilbo looked as if he was about to protest but then Thorin saw the steely glint in his eyes. “Dragon’s Venom,” he said, his voice determined and triumphant. Thorin felt an answering smile form on his face, hidden by his mask.

“Aim true,” was all he said. He’d thought about killing Bolg for years, imagined the feel of his knife cutting through his flesh like hot butter, envisioned watching the light leave his eyes even as they widened in recognition of his killer. It was a wrench to let someone else do it, especially one not of his kin or even Order; but letting Bilbo kill Bolg was his way of letting Bilbo know he trusted him, and Bilbo seemed to understand what it was costing him to hand the job over.

Bilbo looked at him, holding his gaze for a long moment. “He’ll suffer,” he promised him. “He’ll know pain before he dies.”

Thorin just gave a curt nod and Bilbo turned to face Bolg, moving slightly forward, slowly, the courtesans doing their job and keeping everyone’s focus on them rather than Thorin and Bilbo. Thorin was watching him closely and even still didn’t see how Bilbo got hold of his dart of green wood, though it had been discoloured by the poison it was coated in: one moment his hand was empty, with a flash of his robe the next there was a dart held loosely between his fingers.

The courtesans left them then, crowding around Bolg, who was delighted by the appearance of over half a dozen pretty women. They started to draw him away, turning him so that the back of his neck was open to Bilbo’s flawless aim. The guards moved too, walking one on either side of the dirty lecher. For just a moment the way to Bolg’s neck was completely clear and that was all Bilbo needed – with a flick of his wrist the dart flew through the air before sinking into the fat fleshy mound that was Bolg’s neck, making him jerk suddenly and peer around.  Thorin watched with his heart in his throat, though fear quickly replaced triumph as the dart seemed to fall away from the man’s neck.

Bilbo was tugging gently yet urgently on Thorin’s cloak, urging him away. “Come on,” he hissed.

“But the dart – it’s fallen out–”

“It’s supposed to do that,” Bilbo said and Thorin allowed Bilbo to draw him away. They were nearly at the side of the manse. “That’s how I made it, so that it’s less detectable. Trust me, it’s worked.”

As if on cue, a scream rent the air and Thorin whirled around. Bolg had fallen to the floor, one hand scrabbling at his neck while his legs twitched and his body convulsed. His face had gone a fierce, dangerous crimson, as if his head was going to explode, and his mouth was open in a soundless scream.

“Come _on_ ,” Bilbo hissed, pulling on Thorin’s robe more urgently. “Before they see us leaving!”

Everyone was hurrying out to see what the commotion was and Bilbo and Thorin had to fight their way against the tide of people heading towards Bolg. They made it round to the front of the house and the two drunk guards looked frightened at this turn of events, Bolg’s pained cries sounding loud now, the musicians’ instruments forgotten. When the guards looked to be about to stop them, Bilbo gasped out, “Doctor!” and they nodded and let them pass.

They weren’t fast enough, however, as shouts sounded behind them and all the guards appeared in the gateway. The two who had been by Bolg pointed at them and the two of them burst into a sprint, running away as fast as they could. They must have seen them leaving while all the others were gathering around their writhing host.

“Bilbo, go that way,” Thorin shouted, pointing at a side road. “I’ll stop them.”

“But–”

“ _Go,_ ” Thorin said sharply and Bilbo hesitated just a moment before nodding and turning.

“Don’t take your mask off,” he said before hurrying off down the side road, just as the guards turned the corner and spotted Thorin. The mask constricted his view a little, but not enough to impede movement; more to the point, it protected his identity and consequently his Order.

They came at him, this mix of night Watchmen and guards, and as Nori had predicted many of them were drunk or half-dressed and he was able to fight most of them off with ease, with the sword he kept hidden beneath his robes. The two bodyguards were harder, but they were predictable and Thorin managed to disarm them eventually. He was just catching his breath when he heard Bilbo call out.

“Tho–” His cry was cut off and Thorin immediately ran in his direction, hoping desperately he was alright. He darted around a corner and found Bilbo perched up on the wall that surrounded one of the wealthy nobles’ manses, a group of five guards surrounding him on the floor, brandishing their swords. Their armour covered them and there was nowhere to stick a dart; too many of them meant he’d be cut down before he managed to get a knife in one of them.

They looked around at Thorin as he moved closer, his blank face no doubt disconcerting coupled with the glare he was levelling at them.

“Why don’t you fight me instead?” he asked menacingly, the song of steel clashing singing in his veins, and without giving them time to think he launched into an attack, his sword flashing and whirling and crashing against theirs until they were all disarmed, dazed or dead after he’d struck his sword against their helms or stuck them like a pig in the gaps at the joints of their armour.

Bilbo slipped down from the wall once they were dealt with, stumbling ever so slightly and clutching at the arm Thorin held out for him.

“Are you alright?” he asked, checking Bilbo over but he appeared to be fine, though he couldn’t see his face.

“‘M fine,” Bilbo muttered, sounding embarrassed more than anything. “Let’s get out of here. The girls will be alright, won’t they?”

“They will,” Thorin said as they hurried through the streets which were now curiously empty, probably because everyone had fled after hearing the screams from Bolg’s mansion. As they got further away the streets started to fill again and they made sure they looked inconspicuous, Thorin taking off his blood-spattered cloak and carrying it over one arm. He paid no attention to the ladies who preened their coloured silks – or lack of them – in his direction or at Bilbo. To their relief the guard gate was unmanned and they were able to slip through unhindered and unquestioned.

Finally they made it back to the base, where everyone was waiting up for them – Balin included. There was a hush as Thorin took off his mask – which had blood on it too, he noticed – and dropped his bloody cloak to the floor. Beside him Bilbo removed his mask and shook his curls out, making a face.

“Well?” Balin asked. “Did you do it, Thorin?”

He hesitated, opening his mouth as if to speak before shutting it. He shook his head. As the others all sank down back into their chairs, sighing and muttering,  he felt Bilbo’s eyes on him and returned his gaze for just a moment, his eyes smiling while he kept his mouth set.

“I didn’t kill Bolg, no,” he said, cutting over their muttering. They all fell silent as he spoke, listening intently. “But he is dead.”

“How?” he heard Óin ask, echoed by Ori and Dwalin. He looked at Balin, who was looking confused before he glanced at Bilbo and understanding dawned in their eyes.

“Bilbo killed him,” Thorin said. “Painfully,” he added.

“Very painfully,” Bilbo put in. “Enough to make up at least a little for what he did to your brothers those years ago.”

There was silence again before Bofur leapt to his feet and pulled Bilbo into a hug. The others cheered him while Bilbo flushed bright red, and was pulled into the fold to receive claps on the back.

Thorin stepped back a little, letting Bilbo have his moment. From the midst of the crowd of Sons whooping and cheering him, Bilbo looked around, his eyes searching for Thorin, and sent him a small smile when their eyes met. Thorin returned it; a secret smile just between them, before slipping back out of the room and making his way to his sister’s to tell her the good news.

He arrived back at first light, letting himself in silently and heading back to his room, pulling off his robes as he walked. He was drained and exhausted and just wanted to sleep, but was startled by a voice as he walked slowly down the hall.

“Are you alright?”

He started and looked up, Bilbo in a similar state of undress as himself, with rumpled curls and his face still pink. Thorin had no doubt that they’d plied him with alcohol. Bilbo was looking him over and Thorin coloured slightly, realising that this was the first time Bilbo had seen him anything less than fully dressed – cloaked and robed. He wore simple black trousers and his deep blue tunic, the colour of the House of Durin and the Sons. Bilbo glanced back up at him, flushing as if embarrassed to have been caught looking.

“I’m fine,” he said eventually. “I went to see my sister.”

“I thought as much,” Bilbo smiled and in that moment Thorin was suddenly glad for everything that had happened to him, glad for all the misfortune that had befallen his family because without it, Thorin would never have come to meet this man and all at once Thorin realised that Bilbo Baggins was more than just an assassin come to help them; he was perhaps the most important thing to happen to him.

Alarmed by this sudden flood of emotion, Thorin put it down to exhaustion and choked it down. “You might have died earlier today,” he said instead, perhaps a little too harshly. “When those guards surrounded you, your incompetence could have cost you your life.”

“But it didn’t, did it?” Bilbo argued back, coming closer. “I knew you’d come in time.” He smiled at Thorin, who felt himself flush.

“I can’t always be there to save you,” he said. “This afternoon, you’ll learn how to fight. _Properly_ ,” he intoned, when Bilbo looked about to protest.

Bilbo looked at him searchingly for a long while, Thorin meeting his gaze stonily, and eventually the Child nodded. “Fine,” he said sharply and, turning on his heel, strode away back to his own room. Mentally cursing himself,  Thorin debated calling out after him but Bilbo’s door shut before he’d thought of anything suitable so he let it lie; sighing he entered his own room and tried to sleep.

He woke in the early afternoon, his head feeling stuffy. He went to find some food and found Bilbo in the kitchens. He looked at him warily. Bilbo just rolled his eyes.

“I thought you’d be needing something to eat when you woke up,” he said, setting a plate on the counter in front of Thorin. “It’s my mother’s recipe.” Thorin peered at it suspiciously. “It’s not poisoned, you know. It’s just bread,” he said sardonically.

“But it’s got _fruit_ in it.”

“It’s supposed to,” Bilbo said.

Thorin pushed it away. “Is there no bacon?”

“Not until Dori gets back from the market.”

Thorin made a noise and picked at the bread gingerly, slathering a generous amount of butter on it. Not that he’d admit it to Bilbo, it was actually nicer than he’d been expecting but he kept his expression one of unimpressed resignation. With a sigh Bilbo left and Thorin hurriedly ate the rest of the bread Bilbo had set out for him, still warm and soft from the oven. His head had cleared a little and he went off to get changed into his robes.

As he brushed his hair out, he studied himself in the mirror, noting the lines on his face and the grey in his hair. He’d spent so long simply pulling his hair back with one bead; no symbolic braids adorned his hair and hadn’t since the fall of his family. But now...

Now Bolg was dead, the Citadel was in uproar, and they had an ally who would help them at least attempt to take down Smaug. Things were definitely improving for Thorin Oakenshield; hesitantly, almost guiltily, he braided the locks of hair by his ears, securing them with his father’s set of beads.

The man who looked back at him out of the mirror looked stronger, readier... A leader.

Quickly he turned from his reflection and hurried out of the room, stopping off at the training room to collect two training swords before finding Bilbo in the main living room.

“Bilbo,” he said as he entered. “Are you ready to go?”

Bilbo had looked up from where he was reading with Ori when he heard his name but the sight of the swords in Thorin’s hands made his face fall.

“Is this really necessary?” he asked, after saying goodbye to Ori and moving slowly and reluctantly over to join Thorin. “After all, I’m perfectly fine when no one knows I’m there–”

“They knew you were there yesterday and they would have killed you for it,” Thorin said harshly. “I won’t have your death on my hands when it could be perfectly preventable.” He didn’t say anything about how Bilbo’s death would mean more to him than just the end of an alliance.

“Yesterday was an exception,” Bilbo said as they traversed the underground tunnels.

“What about those Dunlendings?” Thorin countered. “Please, Bilbo. You just need to know enough to keep you alive long enough to get away.”

Bilbo gave a small snort but said nothing; Thorin could sense his resentment as they walked. They eventually surfaced and Thorin led them to the edge of the city, towards the Moria Gate, beyond which lay the countryside. 

They exited the city, following a stream of farmers on their way home, and Thorin took Bilbo into the sparsely wooded area where they’d have a little privacy from prying eyes. Starting to learn how to wield a sword was always difficult and never fun, and Thorin thought Bilbo might appreciate it this way. An abandoned watch tower stood tall on the nearby hill, rising out above the trees like a lone candle on a cake.

Thorin shed his cloak and his outer robes and waited until Bilbo had done the same before throwing him one of the swords. Bilbo’s eyes widened as it came towards him and he missed, the sword landing by his feet.

“What makes you think I can catch a sword if I can’t even hold one?” he snapped irritably as he bent to pick it up.

“No better time to learn,” he replied lightly. Compared to his first day of sword training, this was a breeze – Dwalin had landed his first blows on Thorin as he bent to pick up his sword, not giving him time even to retrieve it. _Your enemies on the field won’t give you time to pick your sword back up,_ he’d said to him. _Why should you learn differently?_

Thorin instructed him on how to hold the sword and, when Bilbo was ready, made a slash in his direction and Bilbo watched in surprise as his sword went flying to the ground. He looked at his now-empty hand for a long moment before – of all things – he laughed.

“I told you I wasn’t made for this,” Bilbo said through his chuckles.

“I’m not teaching you for your entertainment,” Thorin said coldly. “It’s for your own safety, whether you like it or not.”

Bilbo glared at him resentfully before he straightened and moved back into position, holding his sword stiffly and jaw set. Thorin took pity on him then and moved closer; Bilbo regarded him warily.

“That’s not how you hold it,” Thorin said gently, moving to stand behind Bilbo, he adjusted the shorter man’s grip on the practice sword. “Here,” he said, keeping his voice soft, “stand to the side. It makes for a smaller target.”

“I don’t think I need to worry about that,” Bilbo said ruefully and Thorin felt his lips begin to curve into a smile.

“Perhaps not,” he said lightly, “but this is the proper way to stand. You mustn’t tense up so,” he continued, laying a hand flat on Bilbo’s back. “Your movements will be jerky if you don’t relax.” He kept his palm on Bilbo’s back, feeling the heat of him through his clothes, until Bilbo’s tensed muscles began to give under his fingers and he pulled his hand away as if burned.

Bilbo glanced at him and Thorin moved away to his original spot, swallowing his discomfort. They looked at each other for a few long moments before Bilbo broke the silence.

“What do I do now?”

“Try and knock the sword from my hand,” Thorin instructed and Bilbo lunged, missing as Thorin sidestepped and knocked Bilbo’s sword away. “You need to be aware.”

The late afternoon drew steadily towards dusk and more than once Thorin found himself adjusting Bilbo’s stance or his posture, his movement or his defences. Each time he did so he felt Bilbo’s skin through the material of his clothes burning like a furnace, branding his skin and he’d draw away as quickly as he could; whenever he did so, he found himself missing the warmth beneath his palms and they’d itch to be there on Bilbo’s shoulders or on his back or around his hands and every time Thorin realised what he was thinking he’d curl his hands into fists and ignore it.

Bilbo kept tensing every time he touched him and avoiding Thorin’s gaze; Thorin had no wish to make him uncomfortable so he kept his distance as much as he could. He didn’t like this – feeling like this, feeling this warmth towards Bilbo, and he tried to quash it as much as he could but he couldn’t lie to himself; he couldn’t deny the thrill that raced through his body at every brush of his body against Bilbo’s, no matter how small.

The sun was beginning to set when Thorin finally decided they’d done enough. Bilbo was tired and they were both hot and sweaty, a sign that summer was truly here at last. Thorin looked away from Bilbo, uncertain as to his own feelings and how he could keep his uncertainty from the other man. Thorin didn’t like to feel helpless, and there was a certain amount of resentment in his acknowledgement that somehow, Bilbo had wormed his way deeper into Thorin’s affections than he’d ever have thought possible. And perhaps he’d changed his stance on how attractive baby seals were, too.

“Have you ever climbed it?” Bilbo’s voice broke into his thoughts and he jumped a little.

“Climbed what?’

“That tower,” Bilbo said, pointing to the abandoned watch tower. “I bet the view is amazing.”

“I haven’t,” Thorin admitted. He saw the glint in Bilbo’s eye and knew what he was going to ask even before he opened his mouth.

“Do you want to?”

Thorin found himself racing Bilbo up the side of the old tower, finding handholds strong enough to support his weight and hurrying as fast as he could up one side while Bilbo raced up the other. The higher they got the stronger the wind got, pulling at Thorin’s hair and making his new braids hit his face. He heard an elated laugh just as he was pulling himself up onto the slate-tile roof peppered with holes, only to discover Bilbo had just made it up before him.

Bilbo was out of breath but exhilarated as he stared out across towards Arda, Thorin joining him. The view was breath-taking: the blue of the sea on the horizon just a shade darker than that of the sky; the city sprawling out in front of them teeming with movement. From up here, one could almost forget that it was under Smaug’s rule, the lawlessness of some parts of the city at night and the bad things that had happened in the intervening years.

The Citadel was higher than the rest of the city, built on a small hill that rose up from the sea of roofs before it, but it was the Lonely Tower that drew the eye. A tall spire rising up from Smaug’s palace, it was so named because so few people were ever granted access to it. It had once had another name, but no one now knew it.

“Soon,” Bilbo said suddenly, the wind almost stealing his words away before Thorin could catch them. The sun was sinking red behind them, casting its light onto the glass windows of the Lonely Tower which glowed like blood. “Soon, we’ll kill him and put the city to rights.” He looked back at Thorin and smiled. He looked back out over the view before them, glancing down over the edge of the tower before looking at Thorin with a wicked glint in his eye.

“Have you ever flown, Thorin?”

“Flown?” Thorin asked uncertainly. “Of course not.”

“You’re missing out, then,” Bilbo said. He stood carefully, boots finding purchase on the tiles, until he was standing right on the edge of the roof.

“Bilbo, what are you doing?” Thorin asked him sharply. “You’ll fall, get down–”

“Are you afraid of me falling?” Bilbo asked. He’d stuck his arms out as if to fly or keep balance and his smile was strangely ethereal, his shirt flapping in the wind. “I’m not afraid of falling, Thorin.”

“Bilbo–” Thorin said but it was too late, the Child had fallen head first down from the tower, his arms up as if diving. “Bilbo!” Thorin called, scrambling to the edge with his heart in his mouth and peering over, dreading seeing Bilbo’s broken body in a pool of blood.

Instead he was greeted to the sight of Bilbo lying in a pile of old leaves at the base of the tower, laughing up at him.

“I told you I wasn’t afraid of falling,” he called up breathlessly as Thorin immediately began his descent the _sane_ way, not by jumping to his death and relying on a small pile of leaves to save him.

“You could have died!” he shouted at Bilbo as he dropped to the floor. “If you’d missed–”

“I wouldn’t miss,” Bilbo said as if it were obvious. He’d stood and was now picking the leaves off his clothes, though he still had some in his hair, and Thorin leant against the wall to hide how weak his knees had gone with relief. “I’ve been flying for years and years,” Bilbo said. “My father taught me. He once told me a story about eagles so large they could carry people; they could talk, too. He told me how they once helped a king reclaim his kingdom by carrying him and his companions on their backs. I loved that story and I wanted to know what it would feel like to be able to fly... I know we’re not meant to really fly,” he said. Thorin was still leaning weakly against the wall. “But I feel so free when I jump. And it makes me think of my father.”

“I thought you were going to die,” Thorin said softly. The sky was beginning to turn the dark dusky blue of evening over in the east and it was time they were heading home.

Bilbo smiled. “I’m not going to die falling,” he said. “I don’t expect to die until I’m old and grey and warm in bed.”

Thorin stepped closer and plucked the leaf from Bilbo’s hair, letting it flutter slowly to the ground. “I would have you keep it that way,” he said softly. He looked into Bilbo’s eyes for just a moment before making to turn away.

“Your new braids,” Bilbo said suddenly and Thorin looked back, meeting Bilbo’s gaze. “What do they mean?”

Thorin didn’t answer immediately, instead studying Bilbo intently for a few moments. He hoped his face didn’t give too much away when he spoke the answer.

“Hope,” said his mouth.

 _You,_ said his heart.

 

_End of Part 1_


	6. The Devil To Pay

**_Part 2: Blossom_ **

**Chapter VI**

It seemed as if they’d gotten away with it, for a time – yes, gossip flew and the Citadel was in shock, but no one seemed to suspect that it was the work of the Sons. In fact the rumours in the markets suggested a scorned lover or a jealous rival, slipping the poison into his wine. Nothing seemed to point to the Children or the Sons, and Bilbo was pleased that his dart had worked – if only the tip remained, embedded deep in the flesh, it was almost unnoticeable.

He and Bofur had been out when Bolg’s body had been taken to the cemetery outside the city. He’d been covered in a white sheet and borne on a gilded wagon, but when the breeze had lifted the corner of the shroud the crowd had stepped back as one with a horrified gasp, Bofur included, at the distorted, mottled purple face of Bolg Orcson. Even now, with the body softened in death, he was still frozen in a convulsed position, obvious under the sheet.

When Bofur had looked back at Bilbo, there’d been a hint of fear in his eyes.

But then Bofur’s shop had been broken into in the dead of night, the windows smashed in and every toy and piece of craft smashed to bits.

Guards started threatening Óin’s doctors, who gave discounted medicine to the Sons, and sending them packing before they’d even had a chance to sell.

The number of watch-men on duty appeared to double in the Erebor district and suddenly the Sons were even more wary. Someone assumed it might be them, Smaug or Azog or someone with influence, and they were hunting for them.

Bilbo had gone up to carry out his errands and to get a look at the district conditions now (despite the increased number of guards, the poorer part, Ered Luin, was just as bad as ever) and had just returned when he heard an unfamiliar voice coming from the common room.

Slowly, folding his cloak over one arm, he drew closer, peering in around the doorway. Most of the Sons were there, as well as the newcomer – a broad man with a shock of red hair, seated in the middle of the Sons. As Bilbo approached he could hear him talking.

“... I sent Gimli out of the city. He’s gone to stay with his grandmother, away from here,” he was saying. “But where’s Kíli? Isn’t he normally running around here?” he asked suddenly.

Bilbo spoke, stepping forward as he did so. “He and his sister have gone somewhere safe,” he said, making the red-headed man jump and look at him in surprise.

“Ah, Bilbo,” Balin said. “This is the last of our number, Glóin. Glóin, this is Bilbo Baggins, a...our ally, and a Child of Yavanna.”

It was telling that Balin emphasised his role as their ally rather than a Child. Glóin looked dumbstruck and Bilbo hid his smile by inclining his head ever so slightly in a small nod. “At your service, Master Glóin,” he said. “Balin, I don’t suppose you know where Thorin is, do you?”

“He was in his study,” Balin told him. “He seemed quite distracted this morning when he asked not to be disturbed.”

Bilbo thanked him and took his leave of the rest of them, heading for Thorin’s office. He knocked on the door and was ignored; when he tried again he heard Thorin call out for him to go away.

“Thorin, open the door,” he said sharply, not in the mood for one of Thorin’s sulks. He didn’t even know why he was sulking in the first place. Suddenly the door then did swing open, revealing Thorin on the other side.

“What do you want?” he asked Bilbo gruffly.

“To speak with you,” he said, slipping past the Son and into the office, much to Thorin’s annoyance. While Thorin shut the door, pinched expression on his face, Bilbo peered around the room. The study was smaller and less regularly used than Balin’s, and less comfortable than Bilbo’s own in the Shire, with bare stone walls rather than colourfully papered, panelled timber ones like in Bilbo’s _smial._ Even now summer had truly begun and the days were hot, they still had to light little fires in the grates here – below ground, it was always cold. Bilbo dreaded to think what the winter was like; he hoped this would be over by then.

Thorin had resumed his spot at his desk and was scribbling away in a ledger. The firelight fell on his hair and once again Bilbo admired those two new braids he’d put in the week before. They suited the Son, it must be said, and just for a moment Bilbo wondered what it would be like to touch one. He shook that thought away as quickly as it had come.

He settled himself in the chair before Thorin’s desk, watching the black ink dry on the page, before Thorin stopped and looked up at him. “What did you want to speak with me about?” he asked shortly and Bilbo ignored the question. He sat back in the chair a little more, drawing one leg up as he got comfortable. He saw Thorin swallow as he regarded him.

“I just met Glóin,” he said conversationally; he didn’t miss the thinning of Thorin’s lips at the inane chatter.

“Yes,” he said tightly. “He’s come to join us now that it’s getting...dangerous above ground for anyone affiliated with the Sons.”

“About that,” Bilbo said, leaning closer in to Thorin. “What of your sister – is she safe? Do they know who she is?”

Thorin’s jaw set firmly and when he spoke it was short and sharp, as if he was struggling to keep his annoyance in check. “I’ve tried to get Dís to join us here too, but she refuses to leave the Pink Sapphire. She doesn’t want to leave her girls and she claims no one knows her true identity but for one or two of the ladies.” He paused for a moment before returning to his writing, ignoring Bilbo again.

Bilbo was annoyed by this sudden change – they’d been getting along relatively well, and now they seemed to have taken a massive step backwards. Bilbo couldn’t work out why Thorin was behaving like it, but it was annoying. Irritably he rubbed at his left arm through his shirt, feeling the marks and scars through the cloth – the heat always made it prickle uncomfortably, as if it remembered the fire that had given it to him.

“What’s wrong?” he snapped eventually after a few long moments of Thorin ignoring him. “Beyond the trouble with the Citadel,” he said as Thorin opened his mouth to reply.

Thorin glared at him for a moment before looking back at his papers. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Well something certainly _is_ the matter, or you wouldn’t be like this!” Bilbo said fiercely, standing up and raising his hands in the air.

“And what is ‘ _this’_?” Thorin asked, his own voice rising in volume as he stood too, towering over Bilbo.

Bilbo met his glare. “Why are you ignoring me?” he demanded. “What have I done now? I’m learning to sword fight for you, I killed Bolg for you–”

“Yes, and look at where _that’s_ got us,” Thorin spat, not looking at him. Bilbo reeled as if he’d been struck in the face.

“Don’t you dare,” he said softly. “Don’t you _dare,_ Thorin Oakenshield! I killed him because you _wanted_ me to!” He was shouting now, though Thorin was facing the flames and had his back to him. Bilbo hadn’t realised how much this man’s opinion mattered to him, but now he was _blaming_ him, it hit Bilbo like a tonne of bricks. “If I hadn’t, _you_ would have and we’d probably both be _dead_ by now, so don’t you go blaming me for this! I won’t stand for it–”

“You’ll stand for whatever I tell you to!” Thorin interrupted him, easily matching Bilbo’s volume. “You made a deal to help us, and you will–”

Bilbo had no doubt he was red in the face in by now but he was so _angry._ “I didn’t make that deal so that you could insult me like this,” he hissed, jabbing his finger at Thorin. He swept up his cloak from where it lay on the arm of the chair and strode towards the door, yanking it open forcefully.

“Where are you going?” he heard Thorin shout after him.

“Back to the Shire,” Bilbo snapped back, pulling on his cloak as he walked.

“But you can’t–”

“I can, and I will!” Bilbo shouted back. Thorin appeared in the corridor behind him and Bilbo turned back to face him even as he continued moving. “Good luck with the rest of your _quest_ ,” he spat. “I’m leaving.”

And with that he turned on his heel and stormed on out of the hideout, ignoring Thorin’s call of “ _Bilbo!_ ” and the gaze of the others’ eyes as they watched him storm away.

 

***

 

Thorin Oakenshield liked to be in control. Everything he said, everything he did – he was in control of it. He’d spent years stamping out unnecessary emotions so that he could still maintain control of his mind and his heart.

Thoughtless laughter was a thing of the past, leaving only strained smiles for anyone beyond his kin.

Trust was long gone, leaving suspicion in the smoking ruins of his heart.

Contentment, joy – they were both things that belonged to a bygone time. They had no place with the Sons, not with him.

And yet suddenly, he found himself feeling things again. Embarrassment, at first, then resentment. Then the urge to smile. Frissons of fear would make him shiver, then relief. And, most alarmingly, it was the coils of nervousness that tightened in his stomach whenever he was with Bilbo; the longing to see him again when he wasn’t there.

It scared Thorin to feel these things after so long running from then, so he hid himself away from Bilbo and the others and hoped the feelings would dissipate. It also made him angry, that he was no longer in charge of his emotions and fifteen years of stamping them out was suddenly made null in a matter of weeks. He hated it.

And when Bilbo came to him, he responded the only way he knew how – with coldness and contempt. Except now, he’d estranged Bilbo one too many times and the Child was leaving them. He stood frozen to the spot as Bilbo stalked off down the hall, away from him and this time it might be for good.

Thorin knew that the others had seen and heard the last parts of their heated exchange but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The only thing that mattered was going after him, but as he made to do so he felt arms catch at him. He pulled away sharply but they didn’t let go.

“Thorin, let him go, lad,” he heard Balin urge, clutching at his cloak. “You’ll just make it worse–”

“No,” he said, looking at him desperately. “I said things – I need to apologise–”

“He’ll be back,” another voice said and Thorin looked into Bofur’s brown eyes.

“You don’t understand,” Thorin said, because they didn’t, “he isn’t coming back–”

“Bilbo will come back,” Bofur assured him. “He cares too much to leave now. Just let him cool off a bit.”

Thorin wanted to protest but realised he’d made quite enough of a scene for one day, so he shrugged off their placating hands and stepped away, saying nothing for a few long moments. Even as he calmed his breathing he felt something stirring in his gut that made him wonder just how well Bofur knew Bilbo, _how_ he knew him so well... He set his jaw and squared his shoulders.

“Tell me when he gets back,” was all he said and strode back into his office, shutting the door firmly behind him. He threw himself back into his work fiercely, hoping it would help him forget Bilbo. All it did was make him angrier.

He didn’t leave to go to dinner and he only ate when Balin came in and forced him to; similarly with going to bed, though he spent most of the night pacing and cursing at himself and Bilbo and Smaug and the whole bloody lot of them rather than actually sleeping. He’d regret it come the morning, he knew, but he couldn’t get himself to settle.

Instead he found himself wondering what Bilbo was doing and where he was; when he’d come back. That too only made him more frustrated at himself and he kicked a chair in anger, ignoring his now-throbbing foot.

Two more days passed in a similar fashion, though Thorin did try and take part a bit more with the rest of the Sons. He was distracted, though, and spent a good few hours sparring with Dwalin in the training room.

“What’s got you so worked up?” Dwalin asked him, narrowly dodging the blunted end of Thorin’s practice sword.

Thorin didn’t give an answer, but he saw Dwalin’s eyebrows rise and his eyes widen just a fraction before he grinned wickedly and aimed a heavy blow with his blunted axes.

“So it’s the Child who’s got you all hot and bothered?” he asked, not bothering to hide his delight. Thorin answered with a sharp attack, which Dwalin easily parried.

“He does not have me hot and bothered,” Thorin grunted at the force of Dwalin’s counter-attack. “I find him irritating and annoying and far too prickly for his own good.”

“Sounds like you,” Dwalin commented. “And you look hot and bothered to me.”

“That’s because I’m _training,_ ” Thorin retorted and set his jaw for the rest of the session. He wouldn’t give his stupid feelings the satisfaction of being named and discussed; if he ignored them for long enough they’d eventually go away.

But they weren’t gone by the time Óin knocked on his door late on the third day to tell him Bilbo was back but that he’d got a headache and wanted to be left alone. Thorin’s stomach twisted painfully as he remembered how they’d parted, how Bilbo would react to him, and whether he might still leave them for good. Suddenly the idea of no Bilbo Baggins was worse even than living this life of hunted secrecy for the rest of his days.

He stood, ignoring Óin’s protests that Bilbo wished to be left alone. He pushed past him and found many of the Sons gathered around and near Bilbo’s door. Feeling their eyes on him, he stepped forward and knocked harshly on the door.

“Go away,” Bilbo’s voice sounded through the thick door.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin said shortly, ignoring the others’ inquisitive looks. There was a groan from the other side of the door and it opened slightly, enough for him to slip through. Thorin looked back at the others. “Go back to bed,” he said, knowing most of them would ignore the order but it was worth a try.

He stepped inside and the door slammed shut behind him. He turned to face a very angry-looking Bilbo.

“You’ve got some nerve, coming here after what you said to me,” he said coldly, moving to where his cloak lay on the bed and drawing it around him. He looked at Thorin expectantly, raising an eyebrow when he didn’t speak straight away. “Well, go on!”

“I... I am sorry for what I said then,” Thorin said. “I can’t excuse it but I would that you knew I didn’t mean it – they were words born of stress and...” He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘fear’, though in part that was truth. “...And fatigue. Not spoken from the heart, I promise you.” He was getting good at apologising, he thought distractedly, he’d had to so many times to Bilbo.

Bilbo looked at least a little mollified by that but he turned away from him, staring at the empty fireplace. He said nothing, however, and Thorin found himself wishing he’d even shout at him, just so that he could get a reaction from him and hear his voice, not this seeming indifference.

“I hope you are not still planning on leaving...us,” Thorin said quietly then, just managing not to make a slip of the tongue there at the end.

“Of course not,” Bilbo gave a heavy sigh, turning back to face Thorin. “I gave you my word, I said I would do this and I think...I think I must try, even if you do have a propensity to be incredibly rude and ungrateful.”

Thorin did flush then, he was sure he did, because suddenly Bilbo’s opinion of him was the most important thing to him, and he’d been a disappointment so far.

“Not ungrateful,” he said quietly, meeting Bilbo’s gaze. “Never that.”

Bilbo peered at him closely for a minute before waving him away, coming closer and laying one hand on his arm. “I know,” he said, and his voice was gentler than Thorin had expected. “I know you’re not ungrateful, not really.” Bilbo removed his hand and went and sat in one of the chairs before the empty grate. He glanced back at Thorin pointedly and Thorin moved to take the other one, feeling more than a little nervous. Funny, how he didn’t fear Bilbo Baggins for his skill with darts or knowledge of poisons; no, it was what he did to Thorin’s heart that made him someone to be wary of.

He let out a breath, slowly and not looking at Bilbo.

“Thorin, it’s fine,” Bilbo said, looking at him closely. When Thorin just gave a jerky nod, Bilbo frowned. “Are you alright?”

Again Thorin nodded and he forced himself to smile, though it no doubt looked very forced. “I’m fine,” he said, internally cursing his inability to hide his emotions.

They sat in silence for a few long minutes, not even the sound of a fire crackling as background noise. Just their breathing, as Thorin tried not to look at the man before him. Their chairs were so close, gathered around the small hearth, that Thorin could have reached out his left hand and touched Bilbo’s right; their knees might knock were he not sitting so stiffly he was like stone.

“Thorin?” Bilbo said after a while and Thorin did look up, though Bilbo wasn’t looking at him. “I want you to know something.” The Child glanced up at him then and his eyes were filled with a mix of such anger and pain that Thorin’s breath was snatched away from him.

“What?” he asked quietly, his eyes not leaving Bilbo’s now. The lack of fire suddenly made no difference because the air between them was so tense it seemed to crackle; Thorin wondered if it was just him or if Bilbo could feel it too.

“I may not have lost my family as you did, but it was losing someone close that sent me down the path I’m on now. I had a friend…one day we snuck out to Lake-town for the fun of it, but it was the day Smaug had ordered the place burned.” Thorin remembered it well; fifteen  years ago the Templar had set fire to the houses of those they deemed against him or trouble-makers, though it was in reality any house the soldiers felt like, and all to frighten the people into submission.

“We were still young and thought it all very fine, until the fires started. He died in the blast while I escaped with just this,” Bilbo continued, touching his left forearm, and Thorin remembered the mottled red skin. “I’d never wanted this life, Thorin. I’d never wanted to kill people; but that day, I decided I wanted to kill Templars when I was older.”

Thorin’s throat closed and he shut his eyes, feeling sick. “How old were you?”

“I was fourteen,” he heard Bilbo say lightly, as if he was discussing the weather. Thorin resisted the urge to clench his fists. _Fourteen._ Bilbo was younger than he’d expected, so much younger. He wasn’t even thirty and already a Master Assassin and Head of his Order...

“So you see,” Bilbo continued and Thorin forced himself to meet his gaze again. “I’m not giving up until the man is dead,” he said, a fierce, cold glint in his eye belying his calm exterior. But then he looked troubled and looked away, uncertain. “I can hardly remember his face anymore,” he said in a whisper, closing his eyes. “It’s just a blur now. Is that – is it wrong of me to want revenge for someone whose face I can’t even remember?” He looked at Thorin desperately, as if he held the answers.

“No,” he said roughly, his fingers aching to reach out and brush themselves across Bilbo’s in comfort, in anything that might make the guilt go away. Sometimes his brother’s face was blank in his memory, his father’s too, and more than once he’d held Dís as she tried to remember Víli’s face – poor dear Víli, killed for his only crime of loving someone deemed a traitor. But he still lived on in Fíli’s golden hair and Kíli’s cheeky smile – these children who’d never known their father. “It’s never wrong to hurt those who hurt the ones we love.”

“There’d be none of us left, if that were the case,” Bilbo said sadly. He looked at Thorin and didn’t look away when Thorin’s eyes met his; for a long moment it was just the two of them in that silent, pain-filled room.

Thorin did it then – he reached out a hand and ever so gently touched Bilbo’s hand, a brush of his fingers against Bilbo’s. But Bilbo flinched away, withdrawing his hand and Thorin did the same, his cheeks warming with embarrassment and hurt as he curled the offending appendage into a fist, cursing as Bilbo looked away.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have–” he started, the words spilling out of him in a garbled mess. But Bilbo interrupted him.

“Please leave,” he said, drawing further away from Thorin. Thorin felt winded, as if he’d been punched in the gut, and he couldn’t move.

“Bilbo, I–”

“I said _leave_ ,” Bilbo said again, his voice sharp and eyes hard like emeralds as he looked at Thorin. The Son nodded, trying to hide his mortification and preserve his dignity as he stood and made his way across the room. At the door he looked back at the figure in the chair.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, and Bilbo’s head fell back against the headrest, his voice tight and eyes squeezed shut when he answered.

“Just go,” he breathed. “Please.”

Thorin nodded even though Bilbo couldn’t see him and stepped out of the door, shutting it softly behind him. He was grateful the others had gone; he didn’t think he could have borne it if they’d been there to witness his shame.

That was it, then. He would ignore these feelings, dismiss them as fantasy, a passing fancy, no deeper or any less fleeting than a dream. He’d stamp them out and never give in to them again. He wouldn’t be made a fool of anymore, and especially not by Bilbo Baggins.

 

***

 

After Thorin left, Bilbo sat absolutely still, his mind whirling all over the place in his shock. Thorin Oakenshield was not a man prone to unnecessary contact and casual touches, that much Bilbo had been able to tell from the off. Which was why he’d been so thrown by just that tiniest contact of Thorin’s hand against his.

The contact they’d had so far had been different – mostly one of them holding a knife to the other’s throat or occasionally a hand on a cloak. Bilbo coloured when he remembered Thorin’s attempts to teach him sword play, the way he’d plucked a leaf from Bilbo’s hair. And now this.

Bilbo wouldn’t admit it, but he’d grown to like Thorin. He admired his courage and skill with his sword; he found amusement in Thorin’s abrupt to the point of rudeness manner of dealing with things; he commended Thorin’s dedication to his Order and his cause; most recently he’d found himself valuing the other man’s opinion, now that they had finally figured out a way of communicating which didn’t offset an argument every time they spoke. When Thorin had lashed at him, it had hurt – more than he’d expected it to, in all honesty.

What scared Bilbo the most, and what he’d been about to tell Thorin, was that he was almost glad for the loss that had set him on this course for without it, Bilbo wouldn’t have met Thorin. Or any of the other Sons, but as he’d vented out his anger before returning that night, it was the thought of Thorin that had sent him back to their safe house.

He truly didn’t know what to think and he dropped his head to his hands, despairing. He wouldn’t think on it any more this evening; he was tired and weary and this was not something he was equipped to deal with right then. So he made himself move to the bed and did sleep for a long while. When he woke up he heard sounds from the corridor; his stomach grumbled hungrily so he decided to wait until he’d put some food in it before trying to think about matters such as this.

Thorin wasn’t at the breakfast table and indeed no one seemed to know where he was, though the set of Balin’s lips told Bilbo that he’d gone out. Probably to the Pink Sapphire, Bilbo decided – though whether to visit his sister or to console himself in the arms of one of the more than willing girls there, Bilbo didn’t know. He didn’t like the latter thought, and focussed on eating to take it away. Bilbo found himself wondering (and not for the first time, he had to admit) what Thorin was like under his robes, under those breeches and tunic; Bilbo could see his broad shoulders and muscles, but what would they feel like under his hands–

When Bilbo realised what he was thinking he felt himself blushing and pushed the thoughts away, though they still floated around his mind, making him uncomfortable. He went out to send a message to Lobelia and the Children and found letters from Fíli and Kíli waiting for them; he tucked them carefully into his cloak to give them to Thorin later.

He did give them to him that evening, when Thorin came back eventually,  though the Son stayed in the common room and Bilbo was forced to hand them over with everyone watching. He’d wanted to do it in private simply because he was unsure where he now stood with Thorin, but he had no choice, it seemed. Thorin accepted them briskly and his voice was perfectly polite, but Bilbo thought he could detect a brittle edge to it as he took them and headed out to see Dís. Bilbo watched him go; he’d almost prefer the rude comments and insults they’d first had than this cool detachment.

When the next day Thorin handed him an envelope at breakfast for Fíli and Kíli, it was with no hint of emotion other than concern for his niece and nephew, and afterwards he kept his attention on his food, ignoring Bilbo’s attempts to catch his eye and excusing himself early. Bilbo found himself wishing Thorin would acknowledge him with a nod, a look, anything that was more than the bare bones of this contact. When this carried on for a few more days, Bilbo missed their late-night talks, filled with insults as they might be, purely because it was more than _this._

After all, all it had been was a touch on the hand at a moment when Bilbo had been less in control of his emotions than usual. All Bilbo wanted to know was where they stood, if Thorin had been willing to make this overture of friendship; it wasn’t unreasonable therefore to think he’d be hurt by Bilbo’s apparent rebuff. It didn’t help that Bilbo sometimes caught himself regretting removing his hand, and wondering how things might have changed had he accepted it.

But he’d been too scared by the thought of letting Thorin get close, right after remembering Beregond and the flames that licked the burning wood where his friend had been, except now he wasn’t there... Perhaps he was scared of letting him get close in case the same thing happened – in case he lost someone he cared for.

Irritably, he shook himself mentally and steeled his resolve. He wasn’t going to pander to Thorin’s mood-swings and sulks. If he wanted to hide then he could hide, but Bilbo wouldn’t. (The fact he chose to sequester himself away in Balin’s library to do research didn’t give his words any less credence, in his mind; nor did the fact that when he heard Thorin’s voice in the corridor he burrowed a little deeper into his chair and prayed he wouldn’t venture in there.)

He spent hours in Balin’s library, reading up on war machines and weapons and trying to find out as much as he could about Smaug and his Templars. Time became unimportant in there, passing in the turning of an old page and flurries of dust, the brush of his fingers against the dry paper that crackled under his skin. He passed a few days like this, lost in the words scratched in black ink onto parchment.

After nearly a week of him and Thorin avoiding each other, Bilbo was interrupted by the door of the library opening and then clicking shut. It wasn’t a large room, but it was built in an L-shape with the desk Bilbo sat at around the corner from the door. Bilbo didn’t look up, as Ori sometimes came and sat with him, but when no friendly greeting was called out Bilbo did tear his gaze from his book and look up.

He stood suddenly, tomes in front of him forgotten as he looked into Thorin’s eyes. Thorin was standing by the corner, as if ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. Bilbo met his gaze stonily, not giving away anything he was feeling. Thorin took a step forward, then another almost tentatively, his hand reaching up to brush lightly against the bound leather volumes on the shelves.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Bilbo said, his throat suddenly dry as Thorin stepped closer.

“I have,” Thorin said, pausing and his gaze flicking to look at a book before turning back to Bilbo. “I had thought you wouldn’t want to see me, after our last meeting.”

“You shouldn’t,” Bilbo said. Thorin took another step closer, looking at Bilbo almost searchingly. Bilbo felt a tiny frisson of anticipation shiver up his spine before he pushed it away, ignoring it. His stomach was clenched with something though, and while the overriding emotion was confusion over Thorin’s behaviour there was also a little thrill of happiness that Thorin was talking to him again. He wouldn’t admit it, but it had been a lonely few days.

“There are many things I shouldn’t do,” Thorin said, his face clouding over and his hands clenching into lose fists in his cloak before falling limp to his side again. “This one most of all, but I can’t not,” he said; his voice sounded anguished and Bilbo stepped forward in concern before retreating again at the flash in Thorin’s eyes, his back against the books. “I thought I could ignore it, but I can’t,” Thorin continued, his voice almost gentle now. He was a mere five paces from Bilbo now, his breath loud in the quiet room.

“What can’t you ignore?” Bilbo asked in a whisper, Thorin two steps away from him now. One. His stomach was coiling with something unidentifiable, but he knew he wanted Thorin to close that gap.

He did.

Suddenly they were so close, their breath coming short and fast and Bilbo saw Thorin’s eyes flick down to his lips and he licked them self-consciously, Thorin’s eyes zeroing in on the movement. With a choked sound Thorin lifted one hand to gently cup Bilbo’s curls and then he breached the last distance between them, his lips crashing down onto Bilbo’s with a fierce vehemence in a kiss that was almost violent, his hand trailing down Bilbo’s cheek to his jawline while the other moved to grip the shelf behind him, blocking Bilbo in against the bookshelf. Most coherent thought suddenly gone, Bilbo couldn’t bring himself to care as he returned Thorin’s kiss with equal ardour, giving back as good as he got.

It was messy and animal in its intensity, Bilbo’s hands coming up to fist in Thorin’s hair to pull him closer, catching on the two new braids. He tugged on one experimentally and Thorin let out a deep groan that reverberated through his body and made Bilbo shiver, tucking away that piece of information even as he nipped at Thorin’s bottom lip, soothing it afterwards with his tongue before Thorin captured his mouth again in a hungry kiss, open mouthed and hot and devouring.

Bilbo moved to put his arms around Thorin’s neck to pull him in even closer, his body arching up almost unconsciously against Thorin’s, but then Thorin made a noise and pulled away, yanking himself free from Bilbo’s grip and turning from him, catching himself on the desk.

Bilbo was still standing only thanks to the bookshelf propping behind him propping him up and he caught his breath in a daze, confusion slowly replacing what only moments ago had been a hazy glow of anticipation and desire.

“What’s wrong?” he asked Thorin, whose back was heaving with his heavy breathing as he stood bowed over the desk. His hair was falling as a curtain around his face, hiding it from Bilbo’s view, but Bilbo saw one hand raised to his forehead. “What’s the matter?” he asked again, stepping closer to Thorin and reaching out to touch a gentle hand to his arm.

Thorin whirled around at the brush of Bilbo’s fingers against him, catching Bilbo’s hand before releasing it as if bitten, his face looking like a caged animal.

“Stop,” he said, his voice a low rumble that only minutes ago had been filling him with steadily mounting desire.

“Thorin, I don’t–”

“Stop,” Thorin said again, backing away from Bilbo. “I mustn’t. I can’t.”

“You can’t what?” Bilbo demanded, moving closer in an imitation of Thorin’s movement earlier, but Thorin’s face contorted angrily.

“I told myself I wouldn’t give in,” Thorin said, a note of his former iciness slipping into his speech. “I wouldn’t give in to the feelings – I wouldn’t touch you.”

Anger was swelling up and replacing all other emotion in Bilbo – all other emotion except hurt.

“What do you mean?” he asked angrily, moving close enough to grab a lock of Thorin’s hair. Thorin removed his hand firmly with detachment, as if he hadn’t just had his tongue down Bilbo’s throat a moment ago and his lips weren’t red from Bilbo’s kisses. His eyes were shuttered and barred, and so cold again.

“I cannot touch you again,” Thorin said. “I will not.”

“Why?” Bilbo challenged, keeping his voice low and sultry as he could. He saw hesitation waver in Thorin’s eyes before they hardened and his jaw set again.

“Because you are one of the Children, not the Sons,” he said, his words dousing Bilbo like icy cold water. “I cannot love one such as you.” A muscle twitched in his jaw.

Bilbo stepped back heavily, his breath gusting out of him in a rush. Hurt, embarrassed and confused, Bilbo turned and fled, stopping only to grab his cloak from his chair and throwing it on as he went, his eyes burning with the threat of tears he refused to let fall, holding onto the anger that kept them at bay. As at all other times when things were hard, he bolted towards the Shire, desperate to forget about it all by the little rivers and ponds.

But he was so busy holding onto his anger as he pushed past stragglers in the evening street, his vision blurred by the promise of angry tears just waiting to fall, he didn’t notice the figures in livery making their way towards him; the only thing he knew was as they grabbed him and pulled him into an alley, and that was the sharp blinding pain of something hitting his head before he blacked out.

 

*

 

The first thing to greet him upon opening his eyes was the pain. The first blink of light made his head ache, screwing his eyes shut against the light made his head ache, and moving made it explode with agony. He bit his lip to keep silent as he forced his eyes open, uncertain of where he was. His whole face was aching dully.

The second thing he noticed was that his wrists were bound. High class, expensive rope, for it didn’t itch his wrists but did chafe when he struggled. Experimentally he gave his feet a try and found they were tied too.

Which led to his third discovery: he was lying on something hard, with a layer between him and it. Judging by the chill that permeated through his clothes – his cloak was gone, he noticed – he guessed it to be stone.

He lay still, listening to what was going on. When he heard nothing nearby, he opened his eyes a crack, wincing at the light – it was only a few candle stubs but it was enough to elicit a wince. The room was damp and appeared to be underground, the pattern of chills on his skin now familiar after and his time with the Sons, but there were no clues as to where – no sigils or crests on the walls or flagstones; not even any sacks or crates.

With his cloak gone, it meant the majority of his weapons had been taken. His darts, his crossbow and quarrels, a few of his throwing knives. The dagger in his boot had been taken too, but he could feel the reassuring weight of his thin flick-knife against his chest. Whoever had captured him had obviously known who – or at the very least, _what_ – they were dealing with.

He was also incredibly, gnawingly, painfully hungry. His stomach growled loudly and he wondered how long it had been since he’d last eaten that meagre lunch with Ori in the library.

He froze as he suddenly heard voices approaching and lay still as he had before, listening intently to the voices as they unlocked the door.

“...said to wake ‘im either way,” one of them said. “Got everything ready an’ all.”

“Wonder why he’d go to so much trouble,” the other one responded. The owner of this voice was evidently the more dull-witted of the two.

“No idea,” the first speaker said as the door opened. “Let’s get on with it before we’re late.”

They said nothing more but Bilbo felt their presence as they entered the room, counted their steps as they crossed the flagstones. He lay perfectly still, until he got a boot to the side and was thrown across the floor, gasping.

“You awake?” the slow one said and Bilbo heard a smack and the other one say, “well, ‘e is now!”

He coughed, wincing as it agitated the bruises on his torso. Whoever had captured him must have given him a good beating, if the sensitivity of his chest was any indication. He felt hands grasp him under his arms and haul him to his feet; he thought briefly about his knife but with his hands bound it was useless. He staggered a little, off-balance with his feet still bound, but the hands held him steady until he balanced.

He got a good look at his gaolers then – one scrawny and the other thick and broad. Their armour was unadorned, though of good quality. He assumed he was somewhere in the Citadel or in one of the merchants’ homes, though what quarrel they might have with him he didn’t know.

“Untie his feet,” the scrawny one said and the large one – the one with wits to match his ugly face – bent down to do so. Bilbo considered kicking him and making his escape, but he didn’t know where he was and no doubt there were more guards around. Besides, his legs were so weak they were quivering. How long had he been unconscious for? He suddenly regretted all those times he’d stormed off in a mood, because the Sons wouldn’t start to worry for a few days yet. Thinking of the Sons made him think of Thorin, and he quickly turned his thoughts away from him.

Once his feet were free he was pushed forward, arms still bound, and he tried to make sure he didn’t fall – without arms, it’d be a painful landing.

“Where is my cloak?” he asked the two guards flanking him. “Where are my weapons?”

“Ask the Master,” the small one said with a sneer and gave Bilbo a jab to the ribs, making him wince again.

He was forced up a flight of stairs, also cold and damp, until they reached another landing but the air here was fresher, not stale. Another set of guards – three of them, this time, came forward. There was still nothing about them or the surroundings to help him identify where they were.

The three guards flanked him, one on either side and one behind, and before Bilbo knew it the one behind had reached forward and was tying a length of black cloth around his eyes. Bilbo cried out and immediately began struggling, but the guards at his side twisted his arms and he stopped, the pain to his battered body too great. He stood limp and placid as the guard finished tying the velvet, obstructing his view completely and he had to breathe through his mouth, as it partially covered his nose.

Panic was rising in Bilbo’s chest, clawing at his throat in his enforced blackness, but he forced himself to stay calm. He breathed deeply and allowed himself to be jostled and pushed up some stairs.

And more stairs. And even more stairs. They went on and on, and in his weakened state Bilbo’s legs soon gave out underneath him, meaning he was dragged blindly up the rest of the way. He was hungry, tired and in pain, and Bilbo put up no more resistance than a ragdoll at the rough handling.

Finally, they reached their destination and he was pushed into a chair, though he was surprised when plush velvet greeted him rather than a hard wooden seat. The blindfold was removed and Bilbo blinked and shut his eyes against the light, but when they’d adjusted he looked around him and marvelled.

Crimson drapes, wallpaper and furniture pieces filled the room, lit by a thousand candles in chandeliers with great huge rubies glittering like fat drops of blood in the light from the flames. There were more guards here too, at least five even in this antechamber, and while their armour was very ornate Bilbo still couldn’t place where they were or who they were working for.

A door opened behind him – a different door to how he’d come in – and a tall figure stood there in a long coat of crimson. Beside him were two maids, one with a bowl of gently steaming water and the other with cloths and bandages. The man’s face was in shadow but with a wave of his hand the two girls moved to him and cut his bonds before they began stripping him of his shirt. He tried to protest but they insisted and Bilbo’s heart stopped when they found his flick knife; the man said nothing, only held out his hand for it.

“You’ll get it back, when the time comes,” was all he said, his face still hidden but his eyes glittering in the light of the chandeliers.

The maids set to dabbing at his wounds with warm water with comfrey oil and rubbing a foul-smelling ointment onto his bruises, making him bite his tongue in an effort not to wince. He wouldn’t give his captor the satisfaction. He ignored them even as they sorted his face, and it was only when Bilbo chanced to glance at the water that he saw it was now red. He really had been beaten up, very badly.

“My, they did make a mess of you, didn’t they?” the tall man said. His voice was deep but strangely ethereal, as if he weren’t quite truly real. “I must apologise on behalf of my guards, Master Baggins,” he went on and the cold hands of fear clutched at Bilbo again before he pushed them away. “They aren’t the most refined bunch.”

Bilbo angrily jerked away from one of the maids’ grips with a hiss as she’d been about to dab ointment onto his burn. The skin looked even angrier in the strange glow from the rubies above, absorbing the crimson colour.

With a small bow the two maids packed up and left, leaving Bilbo to pull on his shirt as quickly as he could while his arms cramped at being free of their bonds.

“Who are you?” he demanded of the cloaked figure, who still had not revealed his face.

In answer, the man simply opened one of the drapes, revealing a tiny city far below, the sun a red glow in the east. Breathless Bilbo gazed out over the city, recognising it as Arda and wherever they were was indeed located in the Citadel, but Bilbo couldn’t work out where.

Until he realised that he was currently standing very near the top of the highest structure in all of Arda. There was no other place he could be than the Lonely Tower – which meant...

Aghast and afraid, though he hid it, he looked at the figure in the long coat, a small smirk just visible in the shadows that made up his face.

“You’re Smaug,” he whispered, his legs feeling as if they’d give out again at any moment. But he did not want to give him the satisfaction.

“The one and the same,” he said, removing his cloak to reveal a man with sharp cheekbones, strange fiery eyes and hair auburn as the setting sun, red and copper tones dancing in the light from the candles. “Just as you are Bilbo Baggins.”

There was no question – he knew who Bilbo was. Bilbo forced himself to breathe and not to let panic overtake him.

“I am,” he nodded, his voice firmer and stronger than he felt. “And I don’t appreciate being captured and tied up and beaten by your men.”

Smaug’s eyes were cat-like, pale yellow with thin slits for pupils. He barely blinked as he stared at Bilbo thoughtfully; it was unnerving. Bilbo couldn’t understand why he was here, how they’d found him, why he wasn’t _dead_ ; but he held his tongue.

“I think we should discuss this somewhere a little more comfortable,” was all Smaug said. He turned his back to Bilbo and for a moment Bilbo regretted that he’d had his knife and weapons taken from him – he’d be killed by all the other guards soon enough but if he was quick enough, he might have a chance at embedding a knife into the Templar’s back. But he had no weapons and he forced himself to keep a blank mask on his features.

Smaug had reached another set of doors, this time a fancy gilded set, and pushed those both open. Bilbo was amazed, though he tried to hide it – the furnishings were even richer in the long room revealed to him, more crystal and ruby chandeliers lit with hundreds of candles and more gold everywhere – gold plate, gold leaf: everything seemed to be made of or decorated with gold.

There was a long table covered with dishes and he could see two places set. He looked at Smaug.

“We shall discuss this over dinner, as civilised people do,” Smaug said, his voice silky and the threat clear. Bilbo didn’t have a choice. Instead of resisting he squared his shoulders and set his jaw before following Smaug into the long dining room, even more guards in here.

Smaug gestured that he should take the seat opposite, his eyes glittering in amusement at Bilbo’s stiff, proud movement as he accepted it. A servant moved out of the shadows and began filling his glass with an amber mead and uncovering the platters. He was greeted by the sight and smell of all sorts of delicious food – roast chicken with a crispy lemon glaze; honeyed quail’s eggs; potatoes tossed with mint and rosemary; flakes of succulent fish with chunks of salt and drizzled with lemon. The sight of it all made his mouth water.

“Help yourself,” Smaug said, a hint of smugness in his voice.

Bilbo wanted to, oh he wanted to – his empty stomach was crying out to be filled with the delicacies before him – but he couldn’t be certain it wasn’t poisoned. And besides, the Templars had all this richness and wealth and good food while there were those in the slums who hardly scraped by. He couldn’t partake of it, not in good conscience.

“I’m not hungry,” was all he said instead.

“Master Baggins,” Smaug said, looking at him as if he were dealing with a petulant child rather than an assassin – though without his weapons, Bilbo was hardly more dangerous than a child. “You’ve been lying in that cellar for a day and a half, unconscious, with nothing to eat or drink. You’re hungry,” he said, “and you will eat.”

“I won’t,” Bilbo refused staunchly, but his resolve was weakening with the smells assaulting him.

Smaug gave a sigh and flicked his hand; all of a sudden his head was jerked back as someone grabbed his hair and he felt the cold sharp of a knife at his throat. “You will eat, Master Baggins. I didn’t bring you here to kill you and it would be a shame if I had to kill such a respected...assassin such as yourself. If you do as I say, you’ll be free to go, with everything you came here with.”

The guard dropped his head and Bilbo slumped into his seat before looking in the direction Smaug gestured – there by the door was another guard holding a bundle. His cloak. Bilbo could see his crossbow at the man’s belt and he looked back at Smaug with a glare.

“It’s all there,” the man said smoothly. “And will be all yours again if you do as I say.”

Bilbo was trapped – defy him and be killed or obey and live. For now, he’d see what the man wanted. Slowly he picked up his glass of mead and took a tiny sip, his eyes never leaving Smaug’s own cat-like orbs.

“Good,” the Templar said, his voice like velvet. “Why don’t you try some of the pork?”

Bilbo ate whatever Smaug offered, the food sitting heavy like stones in his stomach in his guilt and fear. Eventually though he pushed his plate away.

“What did you bring me here for?” he asked, glad his voice didn’t waver. Smaug sighed and moved his own plate to one side.

“You young ones, always so impatient. We haven’t even got to dessert.” Bilbo said nothing, only glared, and Smaug sighed again. “I want to offer you a deal.”

Bilbo kept silent, wondering if he knew of their alliance with the Sons. Often people would reveal what they knew if they were allowed to simply talk, so he said nothing and let Smaug do the speaking.

“I’m sure you know of my relationship with the Sons of Durin,” he said, his long pale fingers toying with a linen napkin. “An unfortunate thing, you understand – some conflict between us from years ago and they still have not forgotten it.” He sighed again, as if he regretted it, and Bilbo had to force himself to show nothing on his face. “We have reason to suspect that they are responsible for the death of Commander Azog’s son, Bolg. You know of him, I’m sure?”

“An honourable man,” Bilbo ground out from between clenched teeth.

Smaug gave a chuckle. “I wouldn’t go quite that far,” he said thoughtfully. “Fond of nothing but fighting and fucking; he was skilled at the former and very accomplished in the latter, or so I’m told. Not the nicest person, but the fact remains that he was murdered by the Sons.”

He looked at Bilbo searchingly and Bilbo forced himself to say nothing, do nothing, and especially not to think of how he’d planted that dart in Bolg’s neck, because then he’d think of Thorin. The hurt still rankled.

“I suppose you’re wondering what this has to do with you,” Smaug continued, his voice smooth and hypnotic. “I am going to kill the Sons of Durin once and for all,” he said simply. “Nothing will stop me. They will all die, just as I killed the first set of Durins who caused trouble for me.”

“And what has this got to do with me?” Bilbo asked dully. “I’m one of the Children, not the Sons.”

“Of course. And theoretically, that would make you next on my list, after Oakenshield and his scum. However, my offer is this: if your Children do not interfere in my eradication of the Durin filth, you will all be allowed to live. Get in the way, on the other hand, and I will burn you all too.” Unconsciously Bilbo’s hand went to his arm where the burn scars were, prickling as if they knew the man who’d indirectly caused them was present. “I don’t suppose it’s really that hard a choice, is it?”

“What’s the catch?” Bilbo asked. Smaug hated the Assassin Guilds – there was no way he’d let them get off scot-free.

“Only that you would swear never to kill another Templar,” Smaug replied quickly. His voice was like velvet, soft and dark and rich and Bilbo felt himself falling. He hardened his resolve. “What do you say to that, Master Baggins?”

Bilbo sat still as he considered the proposal Smaug was offering him. Essentially it boiled down to this: stay out of the Templars’ affairs and be allowed to live, though in a much reduced standing, or continue as he was and get himself and the rest of the Children killed.

He sat tall in his chair and lifted his jaw proudly, meeting Smaug’s cold reptilian gaze before answering.

There was a silence after he spoke, Smaug saying nothing for a moment before giving him a slow, threatening smile. “It is such a good job the Children do not associate with the Sons, is it not?”

 

***

 

Thorin stared at his hands as Bilbo fled, sharp sickening guilt flooding through him. Anger flared in him too – anger that he’d given in to his desire after he’d told himself he wouldn’t, that he’d do the right thing but had proved too weak-willed to do so. He found himself remembering the feel of Bilbo’s lips on his, his hands in his hair, his warm body pressed so close–

With a groan Thorin dropped his head into his hands. He shouldn’t have given in, and now he’d sent Bilbo off again. He shouldn’t have said those things to him, not when all he really wanted to do was hold him close and kiss him, peeling off his layers until he reached the creamy skin he’d seen tantalising glimpses of.

Strengthening his resolve he straightened and joined the others; it would be best for both of them if they forgot this had ever happened.

But Thorin couldn’t stop his thoughts returning to Bilbo, wherever he was – most probably in the Shire. He wondered what he was telling Fíli and Kíli. No matter how much Thorin tried to ignore it, he wanted Bilbo. He couldn’t forget his smell, his taste – it was like a drug and he needed more; he couldn’t forget the feel of him. He couldn’t sleep for how much he _wanted._

Bilbo didn’t come back for four days, and when he did it was with Fíli, Kíli and Dís. Thorin immediately felt a thrill of joy at his return but he hid it. He couldn’t let anyone else know. Instead he focused on his niece and nephew, ignoring the tightening of his chest at the shadow of a bruise that lined Bilbo’s cheek.

Bilbo didn’t hang around after delivering them to Thorin, hurrying out of the room; hastily Thorin followed him with a gesture to his sister and the children to wait a moment.

“Bilbo,” he called and he saw the Child’s shoulders hunch and he hurried onwards; Thorin caught up and pulled him round, letting go as if burned when Bilbo winced. The bruise on his face was purple and yellow, still fading, and now Thorin looked at him Bilbo was carrying himself slightly differently, as if his body was hurt too. He glared at Thorin with tired eyes. “What happened?” Thorin finally asked.

“I got into a fight,” Bilbo replied, shrugging half-heartedly before stopping, just masking a wince. Thorin didn’t believe him, but he didn’t want to estrange Bilbo any further so he let it drop, though he observed him closely, anger curling through him at whoever would beat Bilbo to a pulp as they obviously had – even his lip still looked swollen.

“Why did you bring the children back?” he asked quickly when it looked as if Bilbo was going to move on.

“They wanted to come home, and the Shire is not as safe as it was,” Bilbo replied. “There are more patrols in the Old Forest than there has ever been before.”

Thorin desperately wanted to pull Bilbo into his arms, kiss away the frown that creased his brow, but he didn’t. He clasped his hands behind his back and forced himself not to give in. Instead he satisfied himself with looking and Bilbo turned away again. This time Thorin let him go, but as Bilbo stopped outside the door to his chamber Thorin called to him again.

“Bilbo?”

Bilbo paused and took a breath before looking back at Thorin with an expression of forced neutrality. “Yes, Thorin?”

“I... I’m sorry for what I said before,” he said lamely. “I shouldn’t have said them, and I didn’t mean–”

“No, Thorin,” Bilbo interrupted him, his expression unreadable. “You don’t need to apologise. You were right,” he said, holding a hand up to stall Thorin when he opened his mouth to interrupt. “Never a truer word was spoken.” He looked at him for a long moment before throwing his own words back in his face, spitting them out venomously. “I cannot love one such as _you._ ”

And with that he opened his door and shut it loudly behind him, leaving Thorin alone in the corridor, standing as if struck while his heart felt as if it were cracking, in despair that he’d only succeeded in alienating the one person who’d broken down his barriers and made him _feel_ again.

 

*

 

He and Bilbo didn’t speak for the next week, not unless absolutely necessary. It was impossible to hide the fact that something had gone on between them from the others, but they tactfully said nothing. It was made worse by the fact that their seats at the dining table hadn’t changed, so Thorin spent mealtimes with a near-constant ache as he longed to reach out for him. He _wanted,_ so much that he couldn’t sleep of a night, Bilbo haunting his every moment – sleeping and waking, until he caved and found his pleasure to the memory of Bilbo’s body against his, their lips locked in that violent kiss.

He couldn’t bring himself to even look at him the next day, knowing what he’d done. Not that it mattered so much, for Bilbo hardly ever cast him a second a glance – or even a first.

They limited the number of visits to the outside world on account of the guards, though Ori was dejected for a few days as it meant Nori left them to join his Thieves, supplying information via messages left at Bombur’s inn which would be collected by a different Son every couple of days. For a week and a bit this went on, Bilbo and Thorin studiously ignoring each other, until one day it was broken by Dori hurrying through the door, calling them all to meet in the common room.

Thorin dashed out, alarmed at the urgency in Dori’s tone, and found Bilbo already there.

“They’re in the slums,” Dori told them, breathing heavily. “They’re setting fire to Ered Luin and killing people. Anyone, just ordinary people–”

For the first time in a week and a half Thorin and Bilbo’s eyes met and in a moment of sudden understanding they both hurried out, rushing blindly through the tunnels until they surfaced in the cellar of a church of Mahal, right on the edge of the slums. Thorin led Bilbo up to the belfry where, in the shadow of the huge ornate golden bells that would ring out to Mahal every day, they watched the chaos below them.

The wind whipped at their hair as they stood there watching the fires spread and the water chain-gangs desperately trying to douse them, the guards on horseback trampling and cutting down anyone who crossed their path. Burning, smoking rubble and charred, bloody bodies littered the streets that gradually emptied as they watched, the smell of burning human flesh sickening.

“These people are innocent,” Bilbo whispered beside him; Thorin glanced at him and he was pale, his lips gone white and his face had a greenish hue. He doubted he was any better, his own stomach churning violently and threatening to bring up his lunch.

“We’ll kill them for this,” he said, strengthening the resolve that kept the contents of his stomach down. “We’ve got time, and we’ll kill them.”

Next to him Bilbo said nothing, only moved away to stare out towards where the glittering of the sun on the waters of the River Running cut through the smoke. Thorin must have imagined the tiny flash of guilt, so fleeting he wasn’t even certain it had happened, that contorted Bilbo’s face before he turned his head away.


	7. A Sea Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Sea-change** , _noun_ : a profound or notable transformation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, thank you so much to you guys who leave awesome comments every week - and every week make my day!!! You guys are the best <3 Update is slightly earlier this week as I'll be away tomorrow and didn't want to leave you all in suspense ;)
> 
> I'm reeeeeally really excited from here on in - I wrote half of this chapter when I first started writing this fic and went on my 3 year hiatus before I got inspired to finish it - and (I hope you'll agree!) it gets better from here on in... But you guys can be the judge of that :) Hope you continue to enjoy!!!
> 
> [[also there is an attempt at a sexy scene lol so please forgive me if it's terrible!]]

**Chapter VII**

 

“Those killings weren’t your fault, Bilbo.” Bilbo could feel Bofur’s eyes on him, warm and encouraging.

“I know,” he said softly. “But I can’t help but remember it – Bofur, it was horrible–”

Bofur’s hand gripped his shoulder and Bilbo took a breath, pushing away the memory of the sights he’d seen as Ered Luin burned. He looked up and smiled at his friend. He and Bofur had hit it off right from the start and where his and Thorin’s relationship was turbulent and stormy, he and Bofur just got along. Bofur was cheerful and happy, despite everything, and Bilbo felt comfortable with him. Of all the Sons, he got on best with Bofur and Ori, though he enjoyed Balin’s company too.

“Don’t think on it,” Bofur offered. They were sitting with Ori in the common room, speaking in hushed tones as they were all gathered in the room. Even Thorin. Bilbo deliberately kept his eyes averted from the Son, but occasionally his gaze strayed and he’d be greeted by a glimpse of that stony countenance and sometimes, their eyes would meet; they’d both hurriedly look away and Bilbo would mentally curse. The other man just drew attention towards him, and Bilbo couldn’t help sometimes wanting to risk a look in his direction, after everything.

Bofur must have noticed their cat-and-mouse game of glances, because he looked in Thorin’s direction quickly while Bilbo studiously looked over Ori’s shoulder at the designs he was sketching out in his journal. He had a small grin on his face.

“Something’s happened between you and Master Thorin,” Bofur said, keeping his voice low, much to Bilbo’s relief. Bilbo rolled his eyes at him. It had been days since the Ered Luin disaster and he and Thorin were still avoiding each other – Bilbo was only surprised no one had said anything already. “Will you tell us?” Bofur asked, leaning in closely. Bilbo glanced at Ori, his brown calf-eyes fixed on him intently.

Bilbo shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. “Nope,” he said firmly. But Bofur wasn’t dissuaded and Bilbo’s refusal only seemed to make him more determined to wheedle it out of him. But Bilbo staunchly refused – aside from the fact he was embarrassed, a small part of him didn’t want to expose something Thorin hadn’t already. Let it never be said that a Baggins had a loose tongue.

“Then we’re going to have to make assumptions,” Bofur said.

Bilbo snorted. “Do what you like. You’re not getting anything from me.”

“What do you think, Ori?” Bofur asked conspiratorially, leaning in. Over in the corner, Bilbo saw Dwalin shoot Bofur a glare. “What is it about our Thorin that’s got Bilbo so hot under the collar and tight around the trousers?”

“Bofur!” Bilbo said, too loudly – everyone in the room looked up at that, Thorin included, and he felt himself flushing as he sat back in his seat, crossing his arms and refusing to meet anyone’s gaze. One very blue gaze in particular.

“I don’t know,” Ori said quietly, returning to sketching in his journal. Bilbo was grateful that he at least had the sense not to get involved with Bofur’s gossip. “Apart from the fact he keeps looking at you like he wants to fuck you into next week, I can’t possibly think what it might be.”

Bilbo could only gape at Ori, shocked into silence at the normally mild-mannered young man’s words. Beside them, Bofur was stifling his guffaws of laughter into his sleeve.

“I might say the same to you about Dwalin,” Bilbo hissed back and was gratified to see Ori’s cheeks redden.

“But it’s true, Bilbo,” Ori protested and Bilbo gave a disbelieving snort.

“You have no idea how wrong you both are,” he snapped, sitting back in his chair like a sulky child. He didn’t care about being childish at that point.

“Why? Did you refuse him?” Bofur asked suddenly, his eyes still wet with tears of mirth.

“What? No, I never refused anyone–”

“ _Oh_ ,” Bofur said, a knowing look of amusement on his face, “is _that_ the problem here? He’s _jealous!”_

Bilbo pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to stay calm. “Bofur, he is not jealous. There is nothing going on between us. Nothing.” He wasn’t going to tell them that it was Thorin who’d rejected him, despite being the one to initiate the kiss. Bilbo still felt his mouth and tongue tingling with the echo of the intensity of that kiss and it annoyed him that he couldn’t ignore the thrills of desire that ran through him hotly, like molten gold in his veins. He had other things to worry about now, and he couldn’t let whatever leftover desire he still felt for Thorin get in the way.

It would make things so much easier if it _was_ just simple desire he felt, though.

Ori was looking at him in amusement, Bofur still looking unconvinced. “I give up on you two,” he said, standing. “I’m sorry to disappoint you both, but I promise you two will be the first to know if things change,” he continued, his voice loaded with sarcasm. Bofur just raised an eyebrow, before it dropped into a slight frown as Bilbo stood. He had people to see.

“Where are you going?”

“I just have a few errands to run. I won’t be long.” He said that slightly louder so the others would hear, waving a general goodbye as he crossed the room to the door and ignored the sharp piercing blue gaze that was immediately trained on him. So much could be changed if they just spoke, but Bilbo was petty and refused to be the one to crack first.

“Be careful.” The voice sounded out just as he reached the door, one hand on the stone frame. He paused for a moment, not quite looking back as he answered, before hurrying out.

“I always am, Bofur,” he called, then disappeared into the corridor and made his way out to the tunnels.

It hadn’t been Bofur’s voice that had spoken.

 

***

 

Much as Thorin tried to hide it, it seemed the others saw right through him too. Dwalin would shoot him knowing glances and tease him about it as they sparred and fought, and at one point Balin had taken him aside to his office, making him sit and pacing before the fire and making small talk before he eventually said what he wanted to.

“Thorin, I’ve seen you two dancing round each other, walking like you’re on thin ice – I worry for you. Just be careful,” he said, his voice soft. “Do the right thing.”

“Balin,” he said, rising and placing a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. There... There is nothing between Master Baggins and myself.”

“But you wish there was,” Balin said quietly. Thorin let out a sigh, turning away. He said nothing; he still felt perhaps that if he said nothing aloud it wouldn’t be true – if he gave life to the words he’d be giving life to their truth.

And so he and Bilbo tiptoed around each other, ignoring each other unless absolutely necessary and avoiding the other where they could. Whenever Thorin saw him talking animatedly or laughing with someone else, his gut tightened and his hands itched to pull him away, to pull him close to himself and never let him go, but he always pushed the hot claws of jealousy away.

And then tonight, where he’d tried to offer out a hand of truce, Bilbo had spurned it, by pretending it was Bofur who’d said it. Thorin shot a quick glance in the other Son’s direction, him looking as confused as Thorin was angry, and stormed to his feet before stalking off to his office and busying himself tearing strips of paper and throwing them into the small fire in the grate. He remembered watching the parchment with Gandalf’s instructions curl and shrivel, blackened to charcoal, and he thought that while so far they’d achieved more than they ever had, it was his relationship with Bilbo that was turning to dust before his eyes. If only he’d been able to simply resist...

But he found that Bilbo was proving extremely difficult to resist.

There was a sudden knock on the door and he jumped, blushing, before he remembered that he was alone and no one could see him. He considered ignoring it but the voice that spoke through the door made him sit up straight and he called for them to enter.

“Good evening, Thorin,” Gandalf greeted, his eyes twinkling a little as he stepped into the room.

“Gandalf,” Thorin nodded. “How – how did you get in here?”

“Bilbo let me in,” Gandalf said, settling himself in the chair in front of Thorin’s desk. Thorin stood.

“Bilbo’s back?”

“He is indeed. I must say, you two are doing rather well – better than I expected. I thought you’d still be at the petty insults stage and not have moved on from calling one another _‘Master’_ So-and-so.” The Wizard’s smile as he regarded Thorin was knowing, suggesting he was aware of a lot more than he let on.

Thorin gave a snort. “You’re not far wrong,” he said, forcing himself to move into his desk chair and not look as if he longed to go and see Bilbo right that instant. He turned his attention back to Gandalf. “What can I do for you, Gandalf? How is your... _work_ faring?”

“Very well, thank you,” Gandalf responded primly, pulling his pipe out of one of his many pockets and lighting it. Thorin felt himself relax at the first whiff of smoke. “We’re making good headway. But I actually wanted to talk to you about Bilbo.”

“What about him?” Thorin asked, keeping his voice casual as he retrieved his own pipe and accepted Gandalf’s light.

“There’s something he’s not telling me,” the older man said thoughtfully. “I’ve just been speaking with him. He’s not quite himself, but he won’t tell me why.” Gandalf looked at him with piercing eyes and Thorin took another puff of his pipe to calm himself.

“We argued,” he said eventually. “I said some things I’m not proud of and Master Baggins and I are taking an...extended leave from communication together.” He said it coldly, as if it were no more than a minor inconvenience rather than the cause of this strange ache in his heart.

“Really?” Gandalf looked puzzled. “Bilbo hasn’t forgiven you? He’s never been overly proud,” he said, almost to himself. “You must have said something truly terrible to provoke him so.” Again, Gandalf’s look was shrewd and knowing.

“Yes, yes I did,” Thorin admitted, covering his face with his hand for a moment. “He then proceeded to say them back to me and now we aren’t talking. There. Are you satisfied now?”

Gandalf just looked at him for a long while. “There is nothing more you’d like to tell me about your relationship with Bilbo Baggins?” Gandalf intoned and Thorin replied with a firm declination.

Gandalf didn’t look satisfied with that, a troubled frown on his face. Thorin ignored it – the Wizard was always looking for trouble where there was none, and he didn’t think he could face an extended conversation about Bilbo. Just speaking of him now like this, to Gandalf, was making him shivery with want as his mind supplied him with fantasies. And fantasies were all they were and would ever be.

Instead he steered the topic of conversation to Bolg and their efforts so far, and Gandalf asked about their plans for what to do next. They were planning on carrying out a series of provocative attacks to enrage those in the Citadel – Azog was already getting restless in his anger, Nori had reported – and induce them to make some sort of rash movement they could exploit. Gandalf had only one word of caution.

“Smaug is a patient man, Thorin,” he said in warning. “He’s waited fifteen years for this; he’s not going to let himself be so easily fooled. Kill his commanders and generals, but don’t think that you’ll get Smaug in the same way.” Thorin knew his words were wise – and more importantly, correct – but it was disheartening all the same.

“And what are you doing to help?” he snapped. “You said you’d play your part and so far I see no trace of it.”

“And nor will you, if you carry on like that!” Gandalf retorted, his chest puffing out in anger. “What I’m doing will not be revealed until the time is right, but I swear to you it will all become clear.”

Thorin gave a small snort and lapsed into silence.

“Are you quite certain you’re safe here?” Gandalf asked suddenly. “These tunnels have remained secret? No one aside from Bilbo and yourselves know of them?”

“No one,” Thorin agreed. “Only B– Only Master Baggins and a couple of Dís’ most trusted girls who’ve been with her since the beginning.”

“Good,” Gandalf nodded, his fears a little allayed. “I’m glad to hear that. I saw two guards pass by the entrance Bilbo brought me through before we could get in.”

If Thorin worried about every guard that walked past their secret entrances, they’d never get in or out. It was best to simply exercise caution, which they did.

For a moment there was silence between them; Gandalf made to stand up. “I think I’ll go and see how Balin is doing–” he started to say but Thorin interrupted him, his head in his hands and elbows resting on the desk in the posture of a defeated man. Fifteen years being hunted had never reduced him to this, but Bilbo Baggins had.

“I kissed him.”

“Who?” Gandalf sounded genuinely confused. “Balin?”

Thorin looked up then, his spine stiffening. He gave Gandalf a hard glare and the old man sat back down heavily in his chair, looking at Thorin in...not surprise, but perhaps mild astonishment. “Oh,” was all he said, and then another minute later, “ _oh._ ”

Thorin looked back at the floor, his eyes following the grooves in the stone. “I kissed him and then pulled away. I told him I couldn’t love him, _wouldn’t_ love him. He left and when he came back he threw my words back in my face. We haven’t been speaking since.” He said it all in a rush, as if he could make the shame and guilt disappear faster if he didn’t dwell on it. He’d treated Bilbo badly that day in the library, and he’d change it if he could.

“I see,” Gandalf said solemnly. Thorin couldn’t meet his eyes. Silence reigned for a few more long agonising minutes as Thorin waited for Gandalf to pour out his disappointment and anger and shame at his behaviour, but nothing came. Only a gentle pat to his hand, and a few quiet words before he left, leaving the smell of pipeweed behind him. “Sometimes the heart knows what it wants, despite what the mind may tell it, and there is nothing you can do about it.”

Thorin didn’t look up, his heart torn. On the one hand, Balin telling him to be careful and not risk this quest for the chance he might have with Bilbo; on the other, Gandalf and his heart practically screaming at him to find him and _talk._

But no matter how brave he was on the field, how many men he could kill or how many titles he earned, Thorin Durin was, it seemed, a complete and utter coward when it came to affairs of the heart.

A few days passed, during which he attempted to forget and ignore his heart and continued to avoid Bilbo, who seemed perfectly happy with this arrangement. Thorin was with Dwalin in the training room when he heard Fíli’s shrill voice sounding through the corridors. She’d gone back to the Pink Sapphire with Dís, so he was surprised to hear her here and even more worried at what she was shouting about.

He hurried over to the door, throwing it open and launching out into the corridor, almost colliding with his niece. Her hair had fallen out of its normally neat braids and her face was pink with exertion.

“Fíli?” he said gruffly as he took in her appearance. “What in Mahal’s name has happened?”

“They’re coming,” she said, suddenly out of breath and clutching at Thorin’s hand. “The guards, they found the tunnels–”

“What?” Thorin asked, his body going cold as ice at the words.

“What do you mean?” he heard Bofur ask and he looked up, seeing most of the Sons had gathered around too, their gazes fixed on Fíli. Bilbo was there too, his face looking pale. Kíli had pushed his way through to his sister and was looking up at Thorin fearfully, biting his lip.

“The guards,” Fíli repeated. “They discovered the tunnels at the Sapphire, and they’re on their way!”

 

***

 

Complete and utter silence fell. No one dared to move or even breathe, as if by doing so they’d bring down the whole horde of Templar guards upon them.

“How long?” Thorin asked, his voice hollow.

“I don’t know, maybe ten minutes,” Fíli replied. “I blocked up one of the tunnels a little, but it won’t delay them long.” Bilbo saw Thorin exhale sharply, his eyes full of worry. “But Uncle? Mother’s alright,” Fíli said quietly. “They don’t know who she is.”

Thorin gave a curt nod and silence reigned again for a few moments, the faces of the Sons pale with worry. Suddenly Bilbo knew what he had to do.

“Come to the Shire,” he said and everyone’s gaze suddenly snapped to him. “All of you. You can hide there for a while. Please, come with me.”

He looked at Thorin, meeting his gaze for the first time in weeks. He was unprepared for the emotion in those blue eyes, but he didn’t look away. Instead he put an unspoken plea in his own eyes that Thorin would put aside their history enough to allow him and his Sons to get to safety.

Eventually Thorin relented with a sharp nod. “Fine. Everyone, get your weapons. You’re leaving in three minutes.”

There was sudden chaos as everyone rushed to fetch the necessities.  Most of them were already armed and were ready in two minutes, though even in his panicked mind Bilbo still had enough clarity to smile as he saw Ori with his satchel of papers and slipping another quill up his sleeve.

They started to slip out into the corridor silently. “Head for the Greenwood,” Bilbo told them as they picked their way through the tunnel. They could hear the clanking of guards’ armour and swearing as they knocked down Fíli’s barrier. Sound travelled far in these tunnels.

Bilbo paused as they all left, looking back at Thorin, who was pulling at a series of levers Bilbo had never noticed, pulling down covers of stone over the inner doors. “Bilbo, go,” he said roughly. Bilbo bit his lip at the use of his name.

“Not without you.”

Thorin turned to face him, softness in his features. “Bilbo, go. I will follow you after.”

Bilbo stepped closer, clutching at the material of Thorin’s sleeve. “Don’t you dare die,” he whispered angrily. “I know you’re planning on trying to stop them by yourself, but don’t do that, Thorin. Please. They need you.”

He said nothing else, but his pause seemed to tell Thorin what he meant and the Son gave a small smile, his hands coming up to Bilbo’s upper arms. “Get the others to safety,” he said. “I’ll meet you there afterwards. I promise. Now _go._ ”

Bilbo didn’t want to but the loud roar of victory as the guards broke the barrier sounded through the tunnel, echoing off the stone, and he only nodded once at Thorin. “Be careful.”

“I always am,” Thorin said softly, Bilbo’s words and vague insult from before echoed in that reply, and Bilbo had to ignore the fear clutching at his heart for Thorin and turn to follow the others. He followed the group of Sons, wincing at every sudden, loud movement, until they reached the exit for the Greenwood. Before they went up he made them remove their cloaks – it was too risky to wear anything even vaguely reminiscent of the Sons. He pulled off his own cloak too, before leaving first to make sure the guards were elsewhere, and they all crept up into the city.

“Stay in pairs,” he told them. “Split up and make for the Mirkwood area. I’ll meet you there.” The groups were fairly obvious – Dori and Ori, Óin and Glóin, Bifur and Bofur, Dwalin and Balin with Fíli and Kíli. It was a slow trek for a relatively short journey, Bilbo following at a distance to make sure each pair – or four – was alright as they went their different ways. There was one heart-stopping moment when a guard approached and stopped Dori and Ori, but Bilbo sent a dart his way and the moments the guard spent spinning round to look for whatever had caused the sharp sting on his neck was enough time for the two Sons to slip away into the crowd and disappear.

Finally they made it to the Mirkwood area, an overgrown, unkempt area where the buildings were run down. Largely regarded as Greenwood’s slum, it was perhaps the least populated area of the district but the residents were poorest and largely forgotten about. They gathered in the shadow of a taller building – an old, ram-shackle inn or tavern, Bilbo assumed – and made sure everyone was safe and alright. They’d made it without incident and they moved on together this time, the trees shading them from many eyes and those that did look up didn’t seem to care, returning their gazes to their jobs as quickly as they’d lifted them. Bilbo found Mirkwood strange and eerie, with rundown buildings growing out of the foliage – or in some cases, the foliage grew out of the houses – and the air was oppressive, but he liked it, in a strange way.

The Sons didn’t, however, and seemed only too eager to get out from under trees.

“It’s a while yet,” Bilbo told them. “We still have to get through the Old Forest. The City walls here are old and crumbling – they figure no one will try and attack through a forest, and they’re too lazy to bother fixing it anyway – so we can get there easily enough.”

They all seemed unhappy about continuing to travel through the trees but no one complained, though he saw Fíli wrap her hand around Kíli’s smaller one tightly. Of all of them it was Bilbo who kept looking back, looking for any sign of anyone following, be it guards or Thorin.

“He’ll come,” Balin said to him quietly as he glanced back through the trees yet again. “I know he will.”

Bilbo said nothing, but he forced himself to keep going forward and not to look back. Thorin was nothing to him now but the leader of his allies. Nothing more. Finally they crossed over into the Old Forest and from then on it was only half an hour more. He could see the others were getting tired now – after the adrenaline rush of earlier, they were exhausted now. Dwalin was holding Kíli up, the lad was drooping so much with fatigue.

Finally they reached the outskirts of the forest and the gentle hills that hid the Shire from sight. Despite their weariness, the Sons looked in admiration at the little houses built into the hill, their round windows throwing out a warm yellow light onto the evening grass. Bilbo led them to Bag End, with its smart green door, and knocked before entering.

Lobelia met them in the hall, stopping dead at the sight of so many people – Sons, no less – in their front hall. “Bilbo?” she asked. “What’s going on?”

“We need to find beds for everyone,” he said. “This is Lobelia, my second in command,” he said to the Sons, who all bowed and introduced themselves. They all set to getting beds ready and finding spare clothes – Bag End had always been intended for more than just one child, and there were plenty of spare bedrooms for the Sons. They put Fíli and Kíli to bed after Lobelia got them some warmed milk and comfort food and they all stayed up to wait for Thorin, though as night turned to early morning Bilbo persuaded all but Balin and Dwalin to rest instead.

Much as Bilbo wanted to deny it, the thought that Thorin might have got himself hurt made his head spin and chest constrict painfully. Thorin had awoken something in him with that kiss in the library, and his harsh words afterwards had done nothing to diminish the fire that had rushed through him then. The long days and nights since then had been agonising and more than once, in the dark at night, he’d imagine Thorin’s hands running over his body and feeling his strength above him–

He turned away from the window, going instead to the kitchen to get something to eat. He couldn’t think like that, not now. Not after this...

He heard Dwalin’s raised voice from the parlour, his cup of tea halfway to his lips as he paused. He stayed still for a few long moments and then he heard it – a deep baritone voice, so low he could almost feel it in his chest. Thorin had made it.

He clutched at the counter in sudden relief and set the teacup down, not caring that it splashed a little. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his suddenly erratic heartbeat as his toes curled at the sound of Thorin’s voice. Oh, but he was angry too – the man had put himself at huge unnecessary risk and if he’d died–

Bilbo walked silently through his _smial_ to the parlour, stopping in the doorway. Dwalin had Thorin in a fierce hug, smashing their foreheads together when he released him. Balin’s hug was less violent, but only slightly. Dwalin was muttering something too quiet for Bilbo to hear, but Thorin seemed to freeze at his words.

Bilbo said nothing, not moving from his spot in the doorway. Balin noticed him and cleared his throat, but Bilbo’s eyes were for Thorin only. His arms were crossed over his chest and he felt his heart hammering against his ribs as Thorin turned slowly and met his gaze. Neither of them said anything for a few long moments, the air suddenly tense between them. Bilbo could almost hear it crackling with the intensity of their gaze; he didn’t even care about Balin and Dwalin – at that moment he’d quite forgotten they were there.

“You made it back then,” he said quietly. Thorin swallowed thickly.

“I did,” he said.

“Do you know how _stupid_ that was?” Bilbo hissed. “You–”

“I had to stop them finding the hideout,” Thorin said staunchly.

“By getting yourself _killed_ in the process?” Bilbo said, his voice a violent whisper as he stepped closer to him and ignored Thorin’s wince. “You might have _died_ and then it all would have been for _nothing_ –” he said vehemently with a sharp jab to Thorin’s chest, freezing when Thorin stifled a little gasp. Thorin didn’t look at him and slowly Bilbo pulled away his cloak, revealing a patch of dark blue shirt gone black with blood. He took a deep breath forced himself not to shout. “Come with me,” he said evenly.

“It’s nothing,” Thorin muttered. “I’ll wait for Óin.”

“It’ll get infected if you wait for Óin,” Bilbo said, gritting his teeth. “Come with me now or I’ll make you wish you had.”

Wordlessly Thorin followed him from the room and Bilbo led him to the small room where he kept all his herbs and potions. He directed Thorin silently to a chair while he went about heating a bowl of water and getting the right ointments out.

“You’ll have to take your shirt off,” he said to Thorin when he turned back and the Son was still sitting there in his shirt now stiff with blood. Bilbo was glad the black patch hadn’t grown any larger; it wasn’t still bleeding, then, and that was a relief. Thorin looked at him desperately, as if wanting him to relent, but Bilbo just stood there with his gently steaming bowl of water until the shirt was on the floor.

Bilbo got to work cleaning the chest wound, his movements angry and ungentle. The wound was right above Thorin’s heart and he discovered the last part of an arrow head embedded in the flesh. He yanked it out angrily, making Thorin hiss with pain, before waving it in his face.

“It was stupid and reckless,” he said sharply, ignoring the way his heart beat a little faster as Thorin watched him, his eyes never leaving his face. He turned to his ointments to hide his discomfort. But it only grew when he rubbed the ointment on, because it was one thing to be cleaning blood from skin and another thing completely to rub a healing salve in, working it into flushed skin.

Bilbo had known Thorin was strong – he probably weighed twice as much as Bilbo purely because of his muscle – and it had been hinted that he had an impressive body underneath all his layers, but to see it here, like this... Thorin’s torso was hard and well-muscled with a pelt of dark hair trailing down; Bilbo forced himself not to follow it. He knelt down so he was on a level with Thorin’s shoulder; his hand was slightly unsteady as he worked the first lot of bitter salve into Thorin’s skin, ignoring the way Thorin let out his breath in a hiss.

“Stop complaining,” he said, turning quickly to reach for more of the ointment. “It’s your own fault. If you’d just come _with_ us when I _asked_ –”

He was cut off by lips on his, all coherent thought leaving as Thorin’s tongue licked at the seam of his mouth, which opened for him with little resistance. Suddenly he came back to himself and pulled away, nipping at Thorin’s lip sharply and not bothering to soothe it. Thorin responded by biting at the soft flesh of his neck, marking him and making Bilbo gasp at the pleasure-pain.

“This doesn’t change anything–” he said, his eyes fluttering closed as Thorin’s hands wandered across his body, those hands leaving trails of fire even through his clothes.

“No,” he heard Thorin growl, making him shiver, before Thorin pulled him to his feet and pressed close, so that their bodies were flush together. Bilbo could feel the expanse of Thorin’s skin burning and branding him. “Only everything,” Thorin finished and found Bilbo’s mouth again, but this time Bilbo was prepared and fought back, not willing to let Thorin win so easily. The Son’s hands were everywhere – running along his shoulders, down his back to settle on his hips, lower still–

He found himself being lifted with ease onto the table, his bottles and jars being brushed aside carelessly to make room. Distantly, as if through a haze, Bilbo heard the sound of breaking glass and knew he’d come to regret this hastiness later, but in that moment he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Bilbo’s hands had found their way into Thorin’s hair again and he tugged on it as he kissed him furiously, venting out his anger and his fear into it. He gasped as Thorin pressed close, his want evident, and Bilbo felt his own desire sharpen as heat pooled low in his belly. Thorin’s hands were scrabbling at Bilbo’s clothes and Bilbo released his hold of Thorin’s soft hair to help him remove his own cloak and shirt, until they were skin to skin. He hesitated as the shirt came off and revealed the scars on his left side, suddenly shy about the angry mottling compared to Thorin’s expanse of pale skin, and tried to hide it; Thorin caught his hand and forced him to watch as he pressed a gentle kiss to the scarring, making Bilbo’s breath hitch as the kisses trailed up his arm back up to his neck before reclaiming Bilbo’s lips in an incredibly heated, open-mouthed kiss.

Thorin breathed deeply at the skin of the crook of Bilbo’s neck, regarding him with such undisguised lust that Bilbo felt heat pool low in his belly and his breath come quicker.

“Hurry,” he whispered, clutching at Thorin. “Hurry up.” He moved his hands to Thorin’s breeches and Thorin got the idea, pulling them down to his smallclothes before helping Bilbo out of his.

They both paused for a moment then, breathing loud in the quiet room. Thorin’s eyes had darkened with lust as he looked at Bilbo, his chest heaving. Bilbo hooked his legs around Thorin, bringing him close and the feel of him, of his desire, even through the layers of cloth, was so achingly good that Bilbo couldn’t hold back his moan which was echoed by Thorin as he dropped his forehead to Bilbo’s.

“Now,” Bilbo whispered, and suddenly Thorin had pulled away the fabric and they were completely bare to one another. Bilbo felt as if he had a fever, his skin felt too tight and too hot but he could hardly think beyond the glorious pressure. He pulled Thorin down for another violent kiss as they thrust messily against each other, their mouths biting and Bilbo’s nails raking down Thorin’s back as Thorin’s hands left bruises on Bilbo’s hips.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said in a broken voice, “I need–”

“There,” Bilbo breathed back, gesturing at a vial on the shelf just behind Thorin. The other man reached for it and after a pause that felt like eternity his hands were back on Bilbo, right where he needed it most, and after a moment of discomfort suddenly it felt _right,_ and the world ceased to make sense.

Bilbo was lost in the glorious pleasure of it, time slowing to one hazy moment of tiny kisses peppered against his skin, the rough scratch of Thorin’s beard, the salty taste of the sweat beading against Thorin’s skin and the all-encompassing pleasure that was building up slowly throughout his body as if he were a kettle on the stove – ready to blow at any moment–

They’d ignored this gnawing desire from the beginning and there was no time to draw things out.

Thorin winced a few times as he thrust and Bilbo leaned up to kiss his patched-up wound gently, a tremor running violently through Thorin’s body at the touch. Bilbo was lost in those sinfully long eyelashes fluttering over black, lust-filled eyes, a curtain of dark, grey-streaked hair falling around him, blocking out all else. Bilbo had to shut his own eyes – the man above him, the man currently making him feel this good – he hated him, he couldn’t stand him, he – couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing him again – he bloody well _needed_ him, and the realisation made his eyes itch and his throat burn. Hot guilt threaded itself into him, winding its way up his veins to his core; he ignored it in favour of capturing Thorin’s mouth, reaching up to taste those lips and chase the musky sweetness that was _Thorin;_ sparks jolted through him and he whispered against Thorin’s sweat-soaked skin, “don’t leave me.”

A whisper in his ear, growled out between thrusts.

“ _I love you.”_

Suddenly bright, white-hot pleasure assaulted him and Bilbo could only lie there and let it consume him, and Thorin found his pleasure only a few seconds later; together they caught their breath as they came down from those blissful heights. Thorin’s warm heavy weight covered Bilbo, a comforting presence bracketing him. He clutched at Thorin blindly, seeking his warmth; he was sticky and tired and slightly sore, but he could neither let go of Thorin nor bring himself to look at him – he was scared of what he might see. And yet when Thorin wrapped his arms around him, uncaring of the mess on their bodies, he felt contentment, as if nothing else mattered but this moment of tenderness.

His back soon began to cramp from lying on the cold hard table and he had to shift, sitting up with Thorin’s arms still enclosed about him. He forced himself to meet Thorin’s eye, his heart pumping wildly at the softness in the man’s blue orbs as he regarded him.

“Thorin?” he asked quietly as Thorin’s hands carded softly through his hair.

“Mm?” Thorin hummed, his deep voice making Bilbo’s toes curl.

Bilbo swallowed around the lump in his throat. Thorin had said it, and Thorin didn’t lie. Not about things like this. “I... I think I–”

Thorin silenced him with a kiss, gentle and soft on his bruised and battered lips after their violent coupling. “You don’t have to say anything,” he said, squeezing his arms tighter around him for just a moment before moving away to the water stand and bringing back a damp cloth, gently wiping them both down and checking Bilbo over with such tenderness Bilbo felt the lump in his throat grow even bigger. He kissed Thorin to get rid of the bitter taste in his mouth.

“Bilbo... I couldn’t. I swear that I never will,” Thorin said, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his forehead to Bilbo’s in an achingly sweet gesture.

“You’ll never what?” Bilbo whispered back, his eyes still closed as he breathed in Thorin’s scent, memorising the smell and feel and sound of him.

Thorin’s arms tightened around him. “Leave you,” he said, almost inaudibly, and Bilbo felt his mouth go dry; he hid his face in the crook of Thorin’s neck as the Son continued to stroke his back and press lazy kisses to his hair.

Guilt was rushing over him in powerful waves as Thorin helped him dress enough to get to Bilbo’s bedchamber, his movements so caring that Bilbo wanted to cry. But Bilbo was selfish and as he and Thorin lay in his four-poster bed, their hands and limbs entwined, he drank in the touches and arched under Thorin’s gentle exploratory kisses and touches until he could forget those thoughts, his whole mind focused on the body beneath him as he rode Thorin slowly and determinedly this time, the Son coming undone under his ministrations until the tables were turned and once again he came with Thorin’s name on his lips before they fell asleep, exhausted, Bilbo nestled against Thorin’s chest.

After all, if he hadn’t done what he had, Bilbo doubted he’d have _this_ ; he was selfish enough to be glad of it.

 

***

 

Thorin hadn’t been this warm in a long, long time – his body felt heavy with relaxation and he was so warm and comfortable he didn’t want to move. It was odd to hear the birds and see sunlight streaming in through the gap in the curtains when he was so used to the unchanging light of their underground hideout.

He glanced down and his stomach tightened; Bilbo was still sleeping, his body curled up against Thorin’s with his head tucked under Thorin’s chin. He looked so peaceful and there was none of the accusation or dislike that had been on his face when he looked at Thorin in recent weeks. Thorin remembered last night with a rush of mixed emotions – he couldn’t believe it had truly happened, though Bilbo’s naked body nestled against his own bare one was proof enough that it had; his heart hammered in a mixture of fear and elation at what he felt for Bilbo, which he knew was more than just simple lust. If only it were just desire – it could all be solved by a one night stand and that would be the end of it. What he felt was so much more terrifying than that.

But Bilbo hadn’t said anything back, and in this instance Thorin was inclined to follow the Children’s example and hide from what it was that was that scared him so, rather than face it head-on. He was embarrassed – what had made him say those things out loud, and especially when Bilbo didn’t return his feelings? He needed to get away from the Child, whose sleeping form, gently rounded and which fit so well against his own hard muscle, was doing things to his body he couldn’t afford to deal with right now; ever so carefully he pulled his arm out from beneath Bilbo’s head, shaking it to get the blood flow back, and sat up, rolling away from Bilbo. At the loss of Thorin’s warmth Bilbo murmured something unintelligible before turning over, facing away from Thorin. He had a dimple in the small of his back Thorin only just resisted touching.

Quickly the Son dressed himself, stifling his grunt of discomfort as he pulled on his bloodied shirt, now gone hard and stiff, the wound pinching slightly despite the ointment Bilbo had put on the night before. He felt the scratches on his back that Bilbo had given him and a sharp jolt of remembered desire shot through him; he quickly turned away and finished pulling the shirt on.

Ever so quietly he crept out of the room, trying to mute the sound of his weapon belt as he left. He assuaged any guilt he might feel by telling himself that Bilbo didn’t care beyond satisfying certain needs. He wouldn’t give a fig if he woke to find Thorin gone.

In the quiet of the early morning – the rest of the Sons were all still asleep, and by rights so should he be – he tried to find his way to the kitchen, but this smial was a maze and he hadn’t got a good look at it in the dark, too focused on the pain of his wound and the feel of Bilbo’s warm hand on his arm as he led him away to sort it. He found the parlour where Bilbo had found him and tried to decide where a logical place for a kitchen might be in relation to a parlour, but before he found it he was startled by a voice behind him, making him jump.

“What are you doing?”

He span around to see a young woman looking at him closely and he quickly straightened. “I’m looking for the kitchen.”

The woman appeared to study him for a moment longer before walking past him and gesturing that he should follow. “You’re in the right direction,” she told him and Thorin sighed in relief when the kitchen came into view. “You’re up early, though,” the woman said, standing by a counter and watching him again as he stood uncertainly in the middle of the huge kitchen. “The rest of your people are sleeping like logs.”

“I have business in the city,” Thorin told her, thinking of his sister. He’d forgotten her last night, too caught up in himself and Bilbo, but he had to find her and make sure she was safe – and bring her back with him to safety. The woman made a noise and he caught sight of a small smile on her face before she turned to slice a loaf of bread. “What?” Thorin asked her.

“Business in the city you only just escaped from? It’s practically suicidal. You must be Master Oakenshield,” she said, glancing back at him as she paused in her slicing, a smirk still playing on her face. He inclined his head in acknowledgement, even as he swallowed the bitter taste at the thought that Bilbo had described him to her as suicidal. Was that truly how he thought of him? “I’m Lobelia,” she said, depositing a plate with a couple of slices of bread on the table and gesturing for him to sit. He did so as she handed him butter and cheese.

“Bilbo has spoken very highly of you,” Thorin told her and she flushed slightly with pleasure at that. He tried to quash the rising jealousy in his gut as he wondered who exactly she was to be living with Bilbo, in his home and with such a trusted position too. She wasn’t far from Bilbo’s age either, he noted unconsciously; quickly he focused back on chewing and swallowing before the jealousy turned the food to mulch in his mouth. He paused when he noted her watching him even more closely than before.

“You can’t go about wearing that,” she said when she realised he’d noticed, and hurried out, leaving him alone in the kitchen. He continued eating as he peered around the kitchen, the ticking of a clock somewhere he couldn’t see the only other sound until Lobelia came back, white material folded over her arm. She held it out to him. “Try this on. It’s the closest I could find to your size.”

Thorin took the proffered shirt gingerly. “But it’s white,” he protested and Lobelia shot him a withering glare all too reminiscent of his sister.

“It’s white or nothing,” she told him sharply and Thorin accepted it meekly. “Give me your dirty one and I’ll go and put it in the laundry.” Lobelia looked at him expectantly and Thorin was mildly embarrassed, suddenly shy about removing his shirt and he hesitated; she raised an eyebrow. “Trust me, I’ve seen far worse. I’ve helped Bilbo and the other healers, so you’ve nothing I haven’t seen before.” She sounded far too amused but Thorin did as she said and removed the offending garment, pulling on the new clean linen shirt – so soft it felt like a dream on his skin after so long spent in rough spun cotton. It was a little tight on the shoulders but fit around his torso and didn’t impede his movement. He noticed the embroidery in the corner and felt his blood go cold for a moment – in forest green embroidery, the initials B.B were sewn. Lobelia noticed his gaze. “His father’s,” she told him, folding the bloody shirt over her arm. “Bungo Baggins. He was a little more heavily built than most of us.” 

Thorin couldn’t lift his attention from the embroidery. Bilbo hadn’t really spoken about his father at all, even in their occasional friendly moments.

“Look,” Lobelia said, suddenly terse, her voice clipped and Thorin looked up sharply. “I don’t know what you did or said, but you should know, seeing as Bilbo’s seen fit to trust you enough to allow you into his bed.” Thorin flushed but Lobelia took no notice, ploughing on. “Bilbo has been like a father to me and I know him better than most. He pretends not to care but he’s never been good at that, not really. And if you hurt him, our alliance won’t save you. He deserves to be treated right.” She had caught his gaze and wasn’t letting him look away; the glint in her eyes spoke of a deadly seriousness.

“You don’t need to worry,” he said thickly, eventually. “I must be the exception.”

Lobelia looked as if she were about to say something but at that moment voices were heard approaching and Sons started appearing in the doorway. She gave him one last hard, sharp look before turning and leaving out of another door, leaving Thorin alone with Fíli and Kíli and the few other Sons already up. He quickly forced himself to smile and hid his discomfort behind his usual severe demeanour.

To his relief no one seemed to notice anything odd and breakfast continued rather painlessly, even if he couldn’t stop himself thinking about Bilbo, who was no doubt awake by now – the Sons all gathered together to eat was always a noisy affair – and probably cursing him to his Maker’s halls even then. He tried to hurry and finish his food as quickly as possible so that he could get to Dís, but he was forced to hide his jitters as he was bombarded with questions about the Templar guards the night before and the hideout and how he’d got away.

He knew the moment Bilbo appeared in the doorway, because his neck started to prickle and the temperature almost seemed to drop, even before greetings were called out to him. Thorin couldn’t bring himself to look at him, so he kept his eyes on his food as Bilbo answered the others, a definite hint of coolness in his voice. He did glance up once when he heard his name mentioned, but the iciness of Bilbo’s gaze was enough to freeze his blood and he quickly set his food back down, standing so he could escape the steadily mounting tension in the room.

“What are you doing?” Bilbo asked him before he could leave, and there was no doubt any longer for the others that something had happened between the two; the coldness of Bilbo’s sharp voice more than evident. Thorin had his back turned to Bilbo and the others seated at the table and he didn’t turn as he answered.

“I’m going back into the city,” he replied just as icily. Thorin could almost hear the rest of the Sons’ ears straining and eyes popping as they sought to catch every bit of this decidedly tense exchange.

“Why?”

Thorin grit his teeth. When he spoke it was with deliberate slowness, to keep the hot feeling from bubbling up in his chest (though whether it was anger or lust, he couldn’t tell). “Because my sister isn’t safe, and I have to find her and bring her back here–”

“You can’t come back here,” Bilbo said and Thorin whirled back around, ignoring the jolts of want and embarrassment that seemed to stab him in the stomach.

“What do you mean, we can’t come back?” he demanded, staring straight back at Bilbo who returned it just as fiercely. “Have we overstayed our welcome already?” he continued acidly, masking the hurt that had joined him too.

“Actually, yes,” was Bilbo’s answer and Thorin felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. There was no trace of that earlier softness there had been as they lay entwined together in Bilbo’s bed, unclear where one ended and the other began. Just coldness and anger.

“Is this because of what happened?” Thorin asked quietly, noting with satisfaction that Bilbo coloured at his words.

“This is because if Smaug discovers that we have an alliance, he will kill us all,” Bilbo retorted, though his cheeks were still pink. His eyes were still icy. “You’ll go to Bree.”

“And what is there for us in Bree?” Thorin asked, unable to keep the sharpness from his voice.

Bilbo said nothing for a moment before he met Thorin’s gaze, some of the coldness gone though it was still a far cry from the Bilbo of last night. “We have friends there who will help you. Who will help us.”

The eyes of his kin were heavy on him and Thorin could feel their expectation. Suddenly he could hardly bear to accept Bilbo’s _charity,_ and very nearly gave a caustic reply; he didn’t and instead nodded, a short, jerky movement of agreement. Bilbo returned it and glanced around at the others, licking his lips almost nervously and Thorin couldn’t help himself from following the little dart of pink tongue hungrily.

“Lobelia will get you on your way,” he said, looking at Thorin for a moment before dropping his eyes. “I’ve got to go back to Arda, but I’ll come back to you all in Bree.”

“If you’re going into the city maybe we should go together,” he said, eyebrow raised sardonically; in front of the others Bilbo couldn’t protest and the only indication he gave of his annoyance was the slight setting of his jaw. Thorin had seen that look aimed in his direction on multiple occasions.

And as Bilbo stormed past him to the rest of the house, Thorin felt a petty satisfaction that throughout the entire meal, Bilbo hadn’t sat down once. Maybe he wanted to pretend last night hadn’t happened, but he’d be feeling Thorin every time he moved for some time yet.

 

*

 

The journey back to Arda was every bit as awkward as Thorin had anticipated. Neither of them spoke at all, Bilbo turned resolutely away from him the whole time, and Thorin went along with it, also too embarrassed by what had passed between them the night before to want to talk to the man who’d witnessed him come undone completely. He hadn’t meant to say what he did, but now he had and he couldn’t unsay it. Perhaps more importantly, he couldn’t un _feel_ it.

Perhaps he should be more hurt. He’d spent so long trying to keep his distance, trying to ignore the things he’d started feeling; just as he’d accepted them Bilbo threw them back in his face. But he couldn’t be angry; merely resigned. The fight seemed to have left him with his passion the night before, and startlingly he found himself wondering if Smaug was even worth it.

When he caught himself thinking that, he hardened his resolve and vowed that yes, Smaug very much _was_ worth it. He had to ignore the listlessness and if that meant ignoring Bilbo, then so be it. They’d managed as indifferent colleagues before; they could manage it again.

Of course, that didn’t stop Thorin from feeling smug every time he caught even a grimace of discomfort flash across Bilbo’s face. The silence between them, prickly and barbed, became easier to ignore as they entered the city and they both grew more watchful; it was broken only once by a muttered “be careful” from Bilbo, to which Thorin gave a derisive snort. As they reached the edge of Mirkwood they both paused, shaded from view by one of the trees that grew out of an abandoned house.

“I’ll meet you in Bree,” Bilbo muttered quietly. “Do you know how to get there from the city?”

“Of course,” Thorin returned with a scoff, though a small part of him squirmed in discomfort; he knew it was north, but where exactly might prove a problem. Beside him Bilbo just made a humming noise of agreement.

“No later than dusk,” Bilbo said after the silence stretched on a little too long to be comfortable. “Don’t stay here too long.” Thorin simply rolled his eyes at Bilbo’s words; as if he was going to let himself risk everything when they had so much more than they’d had in a long while, even if it was down to the one man he couldn’t look in the eye without wanting simultaneously to die of shame or melt in desire.

Bilbo looked as if he was about to say something, his mouth opening but no sound escaping before he snapped it shut again, and a frown puckered his face. He nodded once at Thorin, his gaze avoiding Thorin’s, before he moved silently away. Thorin watched him go, heading towards the busier part of the street; once he reached the throngs of people going about their business, he melted into the crowds so fast Thorin lost him in a blink.

Shaking his head, Thorin grit his teeth and moved off himself, heading towards Erebor and his sister. He hoped to Mahal she was safe; if she was hurt in any way Thorin didn’t know what he would do without someone there to bring him to his senses. Dís and her children were the only close kin he had left and he wouldn’t let them be taken from him too, not now or ever.

He knew Dís wouldn’t have left Erebor, but staying at the Sapphire would have been too risky. They’d never really discussed this outcome – if they’d come for her, she had an escape plan ready; if they’d come for him, they had a waterproof cover story as to who he was and why he might have been seen there. But this – there was nothing in the instance of the guards finding the tunnels. The only thing he could think to do was go to the Sapphire and hope to Mahal she was well.

The streets were busy so he moved with caution and soon enough he arrived at the Sapphire, the plaza busy even now and business didn’t look to have been affected by the guards’ impromptu visit; the forecourt was filled with people milling around and he forced himself to look inconspicuous as he headed into the brothel, as if he were just another patron. His cheeks warmed as he thought of Bilbo and he ignored the appraising looks of some of the scantily clad girls milling around the softly lit foyer. He received a few glances from some of the other patrons already seated on various low sofas and stools, girls on their laps, but wasn’t deemed interesting enough to warrant a second, not when they were surrounded by bared, warm flesh.

Thorin headed to the main desk where a girl Thorin recognised as Dís’ closest friend among the courtesans sat. She was distracted but regained her composure as Thorin approached; when she noticed it was him she opened her mouth in surprise for a moment.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted her and she nodded. Thorin could see her nails had been bitten down to the quick. “My sister?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“With Pundurûn,” she said softly back. Then she raised her voice and stepped out from behind the counter, drawing Thorin by the hand towards a door as she spoke. “Of course, sir. I know just the girl for you...” She trailed off with a little laugh, practiced enough that Thorin could hardly hear the hard note to her voice. Thorin allowed her to lead him to an unoccupied room, various beds made up around the edges of the room; once inside she shut the door and bolted it. “It was dangerous of you to come here,” she said.

“I have to make sure she’s alright, Mirim,” he said and the woman gave a tight smile.

“I promised you both I’d look after her, didn’t I?” she said.

“You say she’s with Pundurûn?” he asked and she nodded.

“When they came I hid her in the cellar, but they were only interested in the tunnels. They didn’t say anything about her so we bluffed that we’d never known about them, giving Fíli enough time to warn you. They went down and I made Dís stay hidden, but after a while she insisted on coming out again. Then Pundurûn arrived and she went with him, saying she’d be back in a couple of days.” She looked distraught and Thorin caught her hands in his for a moment, letting her take reassurance from his grip. It worked and she gave him a small smile before retracting her hands.

“Then I will find her,” he said. “Not that I don’t trust Pundurûn, but I need to make sure.”

Mirim nodded. “But you have to be careful, sir. They’ll be looking for you, if you managed to evade them this time.”

Thorin only smiled. “I’ve no intention of being caught just yet.”

Mirim sniffed, as if she didn’t quite believe him, but walked to the window that opened out onto the courtyard. It was deserted, though the fountain still tinkled and the trees still swayed softly, but he saw the boarded up area where the secret door down to the tunnels had been. They’d destroyed it, then – it was reassuring to know that they at least hadn’t got hold of the key, but still disheartening that they knew of it even in the first place.

“Go this way,” she said and Thorin obliged, moving to the window. Before he slipped out, Mirim looked at him closely. “I know what they would have done to her if they’d known. We’ve been lucky so far, but I know it will only last so long. Don’t stop until they’re dead, Thorin.”

Thorin only nodded and turned and slipped out, cutting across the quiet courtyard and scaling the wall, dropping to the street the other side, also deserted. This way if anyone had noticed him going in, they’d assume that he was...occupied.

He made his way to Bombur’s inn, knowing that there would be someone there who could at least give him an idea of where Nori was keeping Dís safe. He got there without trouble, though his heart was in his throat when someone bumped into him; the old man stumbled and looked around at him, peering at him as he apologised. His eyes didn’t widen, he wasn’t struck speechless – he gave no sign that he’d recognised him for who he was, but Thorin hastened to lose himself again in the crowds and mourned the lack of his cloak; he felt oddly vulnerable without it.

Bombur looked pleased to see him and was keen to reassure him that Dís was just fine.

“You’ve seen her?” Thorin cut him off mid-ramble.

“Aye,” the large man replied. “Nori’s been looking after her, but–”

“Where is Nori? Is he here?” Thorin asked sharply. Bombur shook his head.

“I’m not sure where he is right now.” Thorin only nodded and turned to the back room that was ostentatiously a gambling den but was instead where the Thieves gathered, though it did offer the occasional additional source of income. He slipped into the room, glancing at the various faces in the room, and there at the back spotted Tauriel seated in a booth, back to the wall and facing the room, laughing at something her companion was saying.

He made his way through the various Thieves playing at dice or darts and headed in her direction; as he approached she noticed him and sat up, giving her customary flick of her red hair.

“Thorin,” she greeted him with a smirk and he ignored it, giving a short nod instead.

“Tauriel,” he returned. “Where is Nori?”

“You looking for your sister?” she asked, leaning back in her seat and lifting one foot onto the table, cocking her head to one side as she regarded him.

“Yes,” Thorin replied stiffly. “Have you seen her?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling up at him but saying nothing more. Thorin waited but she just looked up at him with laughter in those green eyes of hers.

“Well? Where is she?” he asked and Tauriel’s grin stretched a little wider; she shot a glance at her companion, who Thorin had ignored up until now, with both eyebrows raised and amusement still curling her mouth. The person sitting opposite Tauriel stood then, revealing themselves as a woman; the hood was pulled back and Thorin found himself looking into a very familiar pair of blue eyes.

“ _She_ is right here,” she said and Thorin stared at her in surprise.

“Dís?” he asked, baffled, and she nodded; Thorin immediately pulled her close and hugged her tightly, her arms coming up to wrap around him. He held her for a long while, simply making sure it was really her and that she was really alright.

“Fíli got to you in time?” Dís asked in trepidation and Thorin could see the fear in her eyes.

“She did,” he reassured her, squeezing her hand. “We all got away safely.” His words were rendered untrue when Dís hugged him just a tad too tightly and aggravated his chest wound, making him wince behind his clenched teeth.

“You’re hurt!” she exclaimed, drawing back and studying his face intently, watching him like a hawk for any further signs of injury.

“I’m fine,” he said as her eyes narrowed. “I promise.” Wanting to turn the attention away from himself, he said, “what about you?”

“Me?” she gave a small smile. “I’m fine. Nori realised what was happening and came and helped me away while the guards were all busy searching the tunnels. Tauriel’s been looking after me since.” She flashed a grin at the red-headed Thief and there was such mischief in Tauriel’s answering smile that Thorin had the sense to be wary about what they’d gotten up to.

“The others will be glad to know you’re safe,” he said and she looked back at him.

“Where are they? Did you find somewhere to hide?”

“They’re on their way to Bree,” he said. Dís’ gaze sharpened.

“Bree? Why there?”

“There are...friends of Bilbo’s there who he says will help us,” Thorin replied, trying desperately not to colour at the thought of Bilbo, which he evidently didn’t succeed in doing as his sister looked at him closely.

“Of Bilbo’s?” she asked and he nodded, his face suddenly feeling far too warm and he turned to steal Dís’ mug of ale, taking a large gulp and setting it down more carefully than was particularly required, but it meant he didn’t have to look at Dís’ wicked grin. “Thorin, did you finally – oh, this is brilliant,” Dís chuckled, elbowing him sharply in the ribs.

“Shame. I liked him,” Tauriel said, giving a sigh. “I bet he knows how to treat a lady, too...” she said, her grin widening as Thorin couldn’t stop the irritated glance in her direction.

“I won’t talk about this,” he muttered. “We’ve more important things to be worrying about, such as getting you to safety,” he addressed Dís at the last words. She looked at him, vaguely surprised.

“I’m safe here,” she said, and Thorin stared at her, stumped.

“Dís, those guards nearly _found_ you,” he said fiercely, keeping his voice low. “What do you think they’d have done to you if they had? Tell me honestly that you think you’re _safe_ here!”

“Nobody knows about me!” she returned. “Aside from the Sons, all of four people know who I really am. I’m as safe as I can be.”

“That’s four people too many,” Thorin said, feeling his patience start to flake and irritation started to show through the cracks, which made Dís set her jaw obstinately. “Please, Dís, come with us to Bree and let me look after you,” he said, almost pleading.

“I don’t need you to look after me!” Dís retorted. “I’m as capable as you at wielding a knife and I was taught the same tricks as you, Thorin. I don’t need you, and in any case I’m needed back at the Sapphire. Those guards did more than just break down a wall, and I need to make sure my girls are alright.”

“Dís,” Thorin said sharply, feeling a vein throb at his temple. “For Mahal’s sake, come with me. For Fíli and Kíli’s sakes, come back with me.” For a second Thorin thought he had her at that, but her eyes hardened with resolve and Thorin cursed Durin stubbornness.

“Don’t ask this of me, Thorin, and don’t you _dare_ bring the children into this,” she hissed. “My place is _here,_ with my girls, finding out information on the Templars’ movements. I can do no more for my children if I were to go with you.”

“Dís, please,” he said tiredly, but his sister cut him off in her fury and desperation.

“No, Thorin!” She looked at him desperately. “Please, don’t ask me to do this. This, this is where I belong – with my girls and my business and the Thieves. Asking me to give this up is like asking you to lay down your blades,” she said, her voice calmer but no less full of emotion. “Would you do that if I asked? Would you put away your knives and your sword because I feared for your life?” she asked him then and Thorin shook his head, knowing it was the truth.

“No,” he admitted quietly. Their goal could not be set aside purely because of the risk of dying.

Dís put a hand to his cheek and he looked at her, meeting her blue Durin eyes. “Then don’t ask this of me,” she said. “Let me help you from the city, as I have always done, while you regroup and prepare.”

“I don’t like it,” Thorin said.

“You don’t have to,” she replied coolly. “And before you use my children against me again, it’s you who can do the most for them now. Keep them safe and hidden.”

Thorin clenched his teeth. “I will.” He pressed a hard kiss to her cheek before turning and striding out back the way he’d come.

           

***

 

It was late afternoon by the time Bilbo arrived in Bree, his cloak dusty from the road and sweltering inside his robes. The days were getting long and warm now, with fewer hours of the cover of darkness to hide by. Dusk would fall in a few hours; he hoped Thorin was back by now.

He crossed bustling squares and streets as he headed towards the inn where he knew the Sons should have gone, if Balin had followed his instructions. Slipping inside, he scanned around the quiet front room – it was too quiet for there to be any Sons here, that much was sure–

“What’s this,” a familiar voice said behind him and Bilbo couldn’t help but smile. “A Child caught off his guard?”

Bilbo span around to greet the owner of the voice. “You can only dream, Aragorn,” he grinned. Glancing down, the other man saw the flash of metal in Bilbo’s hand and his own smile grew even wider. He met Bilbo’s gaze again and Bilbo slipped the knife away.

“One day,” Aragorn said cheerfully, before clapping Bilbo on the back. “What brings you to Bree? I thought you were busy enough in Arda.”

“What have you heard?” Bilbo asked, a note sharper than he meant to. “I should know what news is getting around,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice level this time.

The dark-haired man just looked at him as they crossed the inn, a small smile playing around his lips. “Don’t worry, your activities are hardly common knowledge. I only have an inkling of what’s going on, but it surely can’t be a coincidence that a group of Sons arrives in Bree and not two hours later so do you.” They’d reached the door to a private dining room and Aragorn stopped and turned to Bilbo, who shrugged.

“You’re right, as usual. They’re here on my instruction.”

“That leader doesn’t seem like one to follow instructions,” Aragorn said drily, lowering his voice. Bilbo was relieved at these words, though; it meant Thorin had managed to find his way to Bree without getting lost. “He seems in a right foul mood. Definitely not a people person, at least; how’d you manage to convince him to do anything?”

“With great difficulty,” Bilbo muttered, gritting his teeth. “That’s Thorin Oakenshield and he’s the most stubborn and proud person I’ve ever had the misfortune of working with,” he continued in a heated whisper, hoping his cheeks weren’t warming as he remembered that Thorin was also a very passionate, skilled lover – which just made everything else even more of a problem.

“Sounds like he’s got under your skin,” Aragorn remarked calmly, though Bilbo saw a glint in his eye and knew his old friend sensed there was more to it than Thorin simply being obstinate.

“Let’s not talk about him, please,” Bilbo said stiffly and the glint turned into a knowing smile.

“Of course,” Aragorn said, placing a hand on the door handle. “Let’s talk to him instead. You sent them here for a reason, and there are things I want to discuss with you as well, Bilbo.” With a nod Bilbo acquiesced and the two of them stepped inside the private room, where all the Sons were sitting around the table in a grim sort of silence. Bilbo saw Thorin by the window, glaring out at the stable yard, his profile cut quite finely against the light from outside, before the man started at the sound of them entering and turned to glare at them instead.

“Finally,” he said curtly. “You’ve arrived. Perhaps now you can explain why you brought us here.” All of that was directed at Bilbo, though he gave him only a cursory glance and the rest of the imperious statement was spoken to nobody in particular and he returned to staring out of the window.

Bilbo ignored him completely.

Smiling around at the Sons, he introduced Aragorn, being sure to use his alias. “This is Strider. He’s a good friend of mine and an ally of the Children.” He noticed that Kíli was chewing on his lip and Fíli picking at her shirt sleeve; had Thorin succeeded in finding his sister? “He can help you – help us – while we find you new headquarters in the city. He’ll prove instrumental to our cause, I’m sure.”

“How can one man help further our cause?” Thorin asked from the window, a disbelieving scoff as he regarded Aragorn distastefully. Bilbo saw Balin’s pained expression at Thorin’s words.

Again, Bilbo ignored him. “The Rangers are extremely skilled fighters and have many, many contacts. This war isn’t just being fought in the city; Smaug’s disease is being felt all over and the Rangers can help.”

“We can prune the plant of all its excess. Cut off its vitals and it’ll wither,” Aragorn put in. “Smaug is getting outside help. We can stop his supplies and eventually he’ll weaken.” He looked at Bilbo, who smiled at the gardening analogy. Aragorn had always found it funny how a group of people so skilled at taking life could also have such a passion for nurturing it.

“Strider and the Rangers are our best chance,” Bilbo said, looking to Balin, who looked uncertain but not mistrustful or scornful. “Trust them. Trust me.”

“If Strider’s his real name, I’m the King,” Thorin muttered loud enough for Bilbo to hear. He grit his teeth angrily at the words. “Why should we trust him if he doesn’t trust us to tell us his name?”

Bilbo took a calming breath. “If I could speak with you for a moment, Thorin, please,” he said, keeping his voice level. Thorin looked at him expectantly but didn’t move. “ _Alone,_ please,” he clarified and with satisfaction he noted the thick swallow Thorin gave before nodding stiffly and joining him by the door.

“We’ll get to know each other a bit,” he heard Aragorn say as he led Thorin out and was grateful his friend wasn’t the sort to take offence easily. Unlike himself or Thorin.

He sat down at a table and by the time Thorin had also seated himself across from him, Bilbo was calm and his annoyance at Thorin was channelled into efficiency, which seemed to scare Thorin more.

“I’ll thank you not to insult my friend,” Bilbo said, his voice almost bereft of emotion he’d schooled it so well. “He’s asked for this life as little as you or I and is only risking his own life and those of his comrades out of a love for me and a hatred of Smaug. He owes you nothing, Thorin Oakenshield. Some civility if not gratitude towards him would be nice.”

“His people are suspiciously absent,” Thorin protested, his eyes still fixed on Bilbo’s. “And I don’t trust him. I know you do but I – I can’t trust someone so easily.”

“Thorin, if it were up to you, you’d trust nobody!” Bilbo blurted out, his calm exterior gone. “It’d just be you and Dwalin and the others fighting Smaug alone, but you _can’t_ do that, Thorin, I’m sorry! You just can’t.” Thorin’s jaw had set and his face had darkened and Bilbo expelled the rest of his breath in a sudden gust. He met Thorin’s gaze again, all his anger gone. “You don’t have to be by yourself any more. Please trust Strider.”

Thorin said nothing for a good minute before he looked down at the table at followed the wood grooves with a fingernail. “I’ll trust him.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo smiled and his smile only grew when Thorin’s lips twitched into one too. For a minute Bilbo forgot what had happened before, but at the warmth in Thorin’s eyes he suddenly remembered last night, Thorin’s hands and body and touch, and waking up to an empty bed. His smile was wiped off his face and he stood again, his eyes so cold Thorin’s smile died. Anger – he called it anger, really it was hurt and embarrassment for letting himself get into this position – flooded him again and he made to return to the dining room where the others were. How could he have let himself become so vulnerable to – to the Master Assassin of the rival Order?

“Bilbo, I–”

“If you trust Strider, he will help,” Bilbo said, interrupting Thorin despite knowing that that was not what Thorin was about to talk about. He moved away before the Son could say anything else.

 

***

 

Thorin watched Bilbo stalk away, his chest constricted so tightly he had trouble breathing. He needed to explain to Bilbo about the night before, that didn’t regret what they’d done, that it was only himself he blamed; but even in his own mind the words became jumbled and useless, inadequate.

He forced himself to force those thoughts away – after all, ignoring his emotions was what Thorin had done best for many years. If Bilbo wanted to pretend that the previous night had never happened, then so would Thorin.

So he rejoined his company and listened to Bilbo and Strider make plans, inputting when required and making sure he was courteous to Strider. He ignored Bilbo beyond any necessary interaction, just as when they’d first met.

“Strider has a contact with a place for you to stay until somewhere more permanent can be found,” Bilbo said and Thorin forced himself not to clench his fists at Bilbo’s words. Instead he gave a short nod in the Ranger’s direction.

“I trust that it is safe and suitable,” he said, and ignored the way Strider’s eyes seemed to glint in amusement.

“Of course,” he replied easily. “It’s only temporary until you can return to your quarters, or find somewhere else, but you will be safe there. Only the Rangers know of its existence.”

“Then I thank you,” Thorin said before turning quickly away and drawing Dwalin to one side, knowing his friend was the only one who wouldn’t say anything. Standing by the tiny window, Dwalin beside him, Thorin took a deep breath and made sure to ignore the traitorous emotions bubbling up inside him – anger, resentment, no small amount of fear.

“Do you trust him?” Dwalin asked quietly, loud enough for only Thorin to hear.

“Bilbo trusts him,” Thorin said shortly, “and so far he’s only been right. We have no choice but to trust him as well.”

“Aye,” was all Dwalin said in response to that, and Thorin was grateful he didn’t try and enquire any further. He knew the others were all stealing furtive glances in his direction, their eyes flicking between himself and Bilbo in curiosity, but Thorin wasn’t going to explain anything. Let them wonder.

They stayed at the inn only long enough for Bilbo to gather together some supplies – food, skins of water, cloths – and distribute it between himself and the Sons and then they left, Thorin feeling more than a little apprehensive at the thought of trusting this man he didn’t know. Since the start of this alliance Bilbo had been constantly perplexed and exasperated by Thorin’s suspicious nature, his inability to accept new people, but it was a part of him. It had kept him and his family safe when all they had was the clothes on their backs and a sword at his side; when people who had sworn fealty and loyalty to him and his kin and turned their backs on them to save their own skins. How could Bilbo, who’d never known that betrayal, ever hope to understand it?

They had no choice but to travel overground, splitting into two groups. Bilbo and Strider drew ahead, with Bofur, Bifur, Ori and Dori, while Thorin with the rest of the Sons were joined by a silent, grim-faced man in the same worn brown cloak as Strider wore. He must have been a Ranger. He said nothing to them, only gave Thorin a small nod and told them all to keep up. They didn’t follow the path; the Ranger led them into the foliage until they reached the forest, where he navigated paths so faint they were more animal trails than actual paths, and Thorin wondered if he truly did know the way, or if he was leading them in circles.

It was starting to get dark and the hours of walking with little to no rest was getting to them. Not that Thorin would admit it, but the wound on his chest felt as if it was on fire and his breath came a little shorter when they had to climb uphill. He needed it bandaging, more ointment; very soon it would start bleeding again. He resolutely didn’t think about Bilbo cleaning the wound, applying the salve, his gaze angry and _hot_ –

Fíli and Kíli were flagging and Thorin had to hold onto their hands tightly to keep them from falling behind. Behind him Oin was leaning on his brother at times, and even Balin’s face was grim with fatigue.

“Can we not stop for a moment?” he asked their ever-silent guide, a little more rudely than he’d meant to but he was in pain and he was so tired.

The Ranger shook his head. “We must reach there by nightfall,” he said. “We keep going.”

“We don’t even know where we’re going,” Thorin retorted, all his manners leaving him. Beside him Fíli stumbled, and immediately Dwalin scooped her up and placed her firmly on his shoulders. Kíli looked up hopefully at Thorin, who suppressed a grimace and bent to lift him up too, even his nephew’s tiny weight putting a strain on his now-searing chest wound. He grit his teeth and ignored the pain, focusing instead on where Kíli was gripping him, twisting his hands into Thorin’s hair.

“It’s safer that you don’t know,” the Ranger said, and that was that. As the light faded it became increasingly more difficult to see where he was placing his feet, to avoid low branches and large tree roots snaking their way above the surface, and more than once he only narrowly avoided sending both himself and Kíli sprawling.

The sky was dark, the sun just set beyond the horizon in the west, when they finally broke through the foliage into a large clearing bright with the light of cooking fires and lamps. Thorin sagged in relief, Kíli’s weight now not insubstantial and the wound on his chest _definitely_ needing sorting; he couldn’t feel the whole of his left side except for the pain that was so sharp it almost felt cold.

They all followed the Ranger to a large building towards the edge of the group of houses, all low with thatch rooves, and as soon as they entered what looked to be a worn but homely room they were fairly set upon by the others, who’d apparently arrived a little while before them.

Kíli had fallen asleep still holding onto Thorin and his fists still clutching Thorin’s hair, and gently Thorin did his best to disentangle him and set him down gently, the lad blinking blearily at the noise and the light. Thorin couldn’t help the grimace that shot through his whole body at the movement.

“You’re injured,” Balin said sharply, noticing the gesture. Thorin waved his concern away; it could wait a few moments longer.

“Where are we?” he asked, looking around for a host.

“You’re with the Rangers,” a voice said from behind him and Thorin twisted round to see who it was – too quickly, as there was another bolt of pain striking through him, and he had to reach out an arm to steady himself against the wall. The voice belonged to a woman, her clothes plain and her face wrinkled with the sun, but she smiled at them in welcome. “You’ll be safe here for now.”

Thorin was desperately tired, bone weary, and he couldn’t find the energy to argue the point with this woman who was letting them sleep in her home. He simply nodded and thanked her, hoping he didn’t sound too brisk or ungrateful. She gestured for them to follow her and turned, heading down a set of steep wooden steps more like a ladder than anything that Thorin hadn’t noticed before. He had to grit his teeth against the pain in his chest as he lowered himself down, a faint sheen of sweat breaking out on his face.

They were in a low ceilinged room lit with flickering candles, a number of straw pallets on the floor with bundles of clothes and blankets piled on them. The Sons immediately began to take possession of the pallets and it was only as they did so he noticed they were missing someone.

He turned to the woman, who was just about to climb back up the ladder.

“Master Baggins, the Child,” he said, his voice stiff. “He arrived safely? Where is he?”

“He arrived with Strider and some of your men not long before you did, but where he is now I couldn’t say,” she told him. He nodded in thanks and turned from her, his arm reaching out again for the wall to steady himself. His legs were distinctly weak, and he just about made it to the wall before he collapsed against it, breathing ragged.

“Uncle,” Fíli gasped, running to him, and immediately everyone was alert, Dwalin gripping him tightly as he led him to a pallet while Óin went to source some hot water. Thorin was breathing raggedly with the pain of it and he let himself be manhandled until he was sitting, his shirt removed – and Thorin could only be grateful that he hadn’t bled onto it, the two little green letters in the corner making a lump form in his throat even as Óin came back with a bowl of steaming water and his herb belt at the ready.    

“Alright, the lot of you, give the man some space,” he said grumpily, shooing the others away. They did as they were told, Balin firmly taking Fíli and Kíli by the hand and leading them away, and Thorin was grateful for the space. He clenched his jaw as Óin knelt down to take a look.

“You didna tell us you were injured,” he said quietly, looking at Thorin in reproach. Thorin gave a grunt.

“It wouldn’t have made a difference,” he said. “You’d only have worried, and I’m fine.”

“Aye, I can see that,” Óin said, the sarcasm evident in his voice as Thorin flinched at the first touch of the wet cloth to the wound. Thorin only scowled. “Who patched you up? They did a good job, though you should have had new bandages this morning.” Though he didn’t look at Thorin, instead fastidiously cleaning the wound, Thorin could feel his disapproval.

“Bilbo,” he said between gritted teeth, ignoring the flutter just his name caused in his stomach – _Mahal, he was_ so _stupid –_ “we didn’t exactly have time this morning.”

“Hmph,” was all Óin said on the matter, rubbing in some potent smelling salve that made Thorin hiss with the sting of it.

He let Óin work the salve in, his mind wandering with tiredness and the leftover pain; he could hear Bofur telling a story to his niece and nephew over in the corner, the low murmuring of the others, and gradually the pain began to lessen and Thorin could almost feel content.

“What happened to you?”

Óin jumped, pressed too hard against the wound and Thorin winced at the sudden spike of agony that flew through his chest; he grimaced.

“Nice of you to join us at last, Master Baggins,” he said curtly, only looking up and meeting Bilbo’s gaze at the last minute. Bilbo’s cheeks flushed slightly but he ignored the comment.

“What did you _do_ to yourself?” he asked, anger evident in his voice. The others were watching them and Thorin was too tired to be angry.

“Apparently walking all day with no rest is not conducive to healing,” he said, closing his eyes as another bolt shot through him. “And Master Óin was doing very well at fixing me up just now, if you’ll excuse us.” He gestured to Óin to carry on, and with only a moment’s hesitation the Son knelt back down and rubbed more salve in before reaching for his pile of clean linen bandages.

Thorin opened his eyes when the room stayed silent, and Bilbo still hadn’t moved.

“Why didn’t you stop?” he asked. “Why didn’t you rest? It was foolish of you to–”

“Ask your Ranger _friend_ ,” Thorin snapped. “Perhaps he’ll tell you why we were unable to stop for even a moment.”

Bilbo said nothing, his eyes fixed on where Óin was attaching the bandages; he puffed out a little breath and Thorin did his best not to drink in the sight, to notice the way his chest was rising and falling heavily, the way he licked his lips before looking away and snapping his mouth shut.

He looked in Thorin’s direction then, not quite meeting his gaze. His face looked pinched. “I’m sorry,” he said, a frown forming on his face. “He shouldn’t… I’m sorry,” he said again, before turning and hurrying up the ladder out of sight.

“Well,” Thorin heard Bofur say and he grit his teeth again, wincing perhaps a tiny bit more vehemently than strictly necessary when Óin tied the bandage and it pinched. He waved away Óin’s apology and thanked him, grateful for the man’s work. Now that the bandages were secured, the salve had left his chest feeling pleasantly warm all over and the pain retreated.

He pulled his shirt back on as quickly as he could manage without aggravating the wound, then pushed himself up from the pallet a little unsteadily and was grateful when no-one said anything. It wounded his pride to have even shown that he was hurt, let alone get it treated in front of his people, but he was _tired_ and weary, and couldn’t stop a traitorous part of him from wondering where Bilbo had gone. Mahal, he could sleep for a week and it wouldn’t be long enough.

Just as he was wondering about food and whether they should break into the supplies given to them by the Rangers, their host appeared at the bottom stairs, twisting her hands into her apron. Thorin forced himself to nod politely.

“Master Baggins thought you’d be wanting some dinner,” she said and immediately there were noises of – loud – enthusiastic agreement from the end of the room where the others were gathered. Thorin stifled his smile.

“Food would be very welcome indeed,” he said and she nodded and hurried back up the steps, only to return a moment later carrying a large pot, and a young boy scampered down after her with a tower of bowls and several loaves of bread. Just the smell made Thorin’s stomach rumble and everyone started to gather around, eager. They hadn’t eaten since breakfast, after all, which might as well have been years ago.

“Thank you,” he said to her before he could be distracted by the food. “I appreciate the risk you have taken in lodging us, and I am grateful.” He truly was, even if he was healthily suspicious and a part of him still rankled at accepting charity. Nothing could change human nature, and Thorin was still proud.

The woman smiled then, the years dropping off her face. “We’re simple folk here, sir, and don’t much like involving ourselves in the ways of the world. But if we can do the world a kindness and help a soul in need, then we will. And Master Baggins has always been a good friend to us, even after…” her voice trailed off for a moment, her smile slipping, before she collected herself and smiled even brighter, though Thorin could see it didn’t quite reach her eyes, “even after everything, he’s a good friend.”

“Aye,” was all Thorin said, and she and the boy turned to leave while Thorin joined his kin, who were eagerly gathered around the food and distributing it into the bowls. They ate quickly, ravenous, and soon Fíli and Kíli were leaning heavily against Thorin, their eyes drooping shut, and Thorin gently carried them over to a pallet in the corner, drawing the blankets up around them and his heart near bursting at the way that even in sleep, they found each other, Fíli’s hand gripping Kíli’s tightly. The others all followed suit after their host had come to collect their bowls, refusing their cheerful offers of help cleaning up, and soon the room was quiet save for the collective breathing of the Sons of Durin.

Thorin lay curled around his niece and nephew, there not being quite enough pallets for them all, and despite the fact he was weary to his very bones Thorin couldn’t sleep. His eyes shut but his mind wouldn’t stop, his thoughts too loud to allow him any respite. He froze when he heard footsteps however, immediately alert and grateful for his insomnia; his eyes found the newcomer as they descended the steps into their temporary quarters. It didn’t take him long to recognise those robes or the curly hair, muted in the darkness.

When Bilbo’s gaze seemed to find him he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the Child hadn’t noticed he was awake. _Where had he_ been _all this time? What was he doing, up there without them? What was he planning and why wasn’t he_ here? – Thorin forced those thoughts away, gut clenching unpleasantly.

They’d left a pallet empty for him, none of them any the wiser as to what he was doing or what his plans were and it had given Thorin a momentary moment of satisfaction that Bilbo hadn’t confided in Bofur earlier, despite being in a group together. Apparently he’d directed Bofur, Bifur, Ori and Dori into the house and had gone off with Strider, saying nothing except giving a vague instruction to wait for the others inside.

Thorin risked a glance, opening one eye ever so slightly, and was only a little concerned at seeing Bilbo still standing there, looking in his direction and a frown puckering his face. The ridiculous part of Thorin wanted to smooth that frown away, before he squashed that treacherous part down.

Bilbo simply stood there, looking in Thorin’s direction; it was harder than it seemed to make his breathing deep and even, as if he were sleeping, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Bilbo. Bilbo looked down at his feet, a strange expression on his face. “I’m…” he whispered to the room at large, obviously thinking no-one would hear him; but then his face contorted and he gave a snort, turning away and heading to the empty pallet where Thorin could no longer see him without giving himself away.

He was all too aware of Bilbo’s presence in the room, no matter how much Thorin told himself to stop being stupid; he was almost afraid to move around, even to breathe for fear Bilbo would notice and realise he was awake. He burned: with curiosity at Bilbo’s behaviour, with anger at him for being so distant, with resentment, with _need –_ it was all Thorin could do not to sit up, march over there, do something _stupid–_

It was a _very_ long time before Thorin finally fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eek, let me know what you thought!


	8. Thief in the Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He was still completely and foolishly in love with Bilbo Baggins; but what chance would he ever have, when Bilbo was still in love with a dead man?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, thank you so very much for your support and lovely comments every week! I can't tell you how much I appreciate it :')
> 
> Hope you enjoy this week's instalment! ;) I'm not sure when I'll be updating next week as I'm actually moving to Germany for a few months so it'll be pretty hectic for a while :p but I'll try not to keep you waiting too long ;)

**Chapter VIII**

Bilbo was awake before the Sons were even stirring and he wasted no time in hurrying out of the cramped room that was their temporary quarters, greeting their host as he headed to the door.

“I hope you’re not thinking of doing anything without breakfast, young man,” Gilraen said, a smile evident in her voice, as she sat up from where she was rebuilding the fire. “You may be a Master Assassin now but that’ll do you no good on an empty stomach.” Bilbo rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

“Of course I wasn’t,” he replied, back-tracking to the table and reaching for a bread roll and a couple of apples. He paused for a moment, staring at his reflection in the shiny red skin of the fruit, and jumped when Gilraen appeared beside him, wiping her hands on her apron. “Thank you,” he said simply, and she smiled, her eyes crinkling as she looked at him.

“There’s nothing to thank,” she replied, patting his hand. “You’re a son to us, Bilbo, and what happened never changed that. You know he would have wanted it that way.”

Bilbo closed his eyes tightly, swallowing down the lump in his throat. This family had been so good to him, even after he’d brought them loss and heartbreak, and he forced himself not to remember Beregond’s face, his eyes and smile so like his mother’s. He didn’t know how they’d forgiven him, but he’d be forever grateful.

“I know,” he said thickly, and gave Gilraen a smile of his own though he knew it looked a little forced. “And I know he’d have wanted me to keep his family safe, and that’s what I’m going to do,” Bilbo told her. She nodded and stepped back, heading back to the fire.

“You make sure you eat those, boy,” she called and Bilbo gave a weak chuckle.

“I wouldn’t dare to disobey,” he said, his lips quirking upwards, and he headed out of the cottage into the daylight outside to find Aragorn. He was sitting on the edge of the clearing, whittling away at thin pieces of wood – no doubt to make arrows for his bow. Bilbo sat beside him and began to eat, neither of them needing to say much and simply enjoying the other’s company. It was only when Bilbo had finished eating that Aragorn spoke.

“You care about them.”

Bilbo tensed at his words, worrying at the apple cores in his hands. “Of course I care about them. We’re allies now, no matter how reluctantly.” He could feel Aragorn’s eyes on him and he couldn’t bring himself to meet them.

“But it’s a little more than that, isn’t it?” Bilbo did look at him then, eyes narrowed reproachfully at Aragorn’s grin.

“I have come to care about them _all_ , yes,” Bilbo said shortly. “Some of them I’d even consider friends, and the children…they deserve better than a life spent hiding.”

Aragorn made a small noise of agreement and went back to his fletching. “So what’s your plan? You know they can’t stay here, no matter how much Mother might want to help.”

“I know,” Bilbo said. “I suppose I’ll go back to Arda. Some of their number remain there; perhaps they’ll have some luck at finding somewhere.”

“I don’t need to tell you to be careful, do I?” Aragorn smiled and Bilbo returned it, shaking his head. “Rest here for today, Bilbo. You don’t need to rush off immediately; give their people a bit of time to find something while you rest for a day. You need it.”

Bilbo bit his lip. He needed to be busy, he needed…he needed to be away from the Sons. From one Son in particular. “Resting won’t kill Smaug.”

“And neither will you if you’re too worn out to protect yourself,” Aragorn replied swiftly and Bilbo made a face at him, prompting Aragorn to heft a pile of twigs into his lap. “Now if you really want to be useful, help me with these! That’ll keep you busy for a while.” Bilbo huffed but complied, and he and Aragorn spent the rest of the morning crafting arrows and catching up. It had been a long time since he’d last been back to Arnor, and while Bilbo hadn’t been… _avoiding_ it, it was true that he hadn’t come as often as he perhaps should. There was always a part of him that would always feel guilty, even if Gilraen and Aragorn and the others had long since forgiven him.

By the time the sun was high in the sky, they had a sizeable pile of arrows and Bilbo could hear the sounds of Fíli and Kíli screeching and Bofur’s cheerful laughter; Bilbo couldn’t help but smile at the sound of it.

“Come on,” Aragorn said, tucking his fletching knives away and standing. “Let’s go and see about some lunch.”

Bilbo knew better than to argue so he stood too, scooping up the pile of new arrows and following Aragorn. His stomach started to rumble with its usual perfect timing.

As they turned the corner of the house and Fíli and Kíli caught sight of him, he was met with a very loud cry of excitement and two very enthusiastic pairs of hands trying to encourage him to join in their game. Bilbo couldn’t stop himself from smiling, their laughter infectious, and Bilbo promised to join them after he’d deposited Strider’s arrows somewhere safe. He greeted the other Sons, most of whom were sitting in the dappled sunlight, leaning against the cottage as they did their own thing; Bifur was whittling, Ori scribbling away on a scrap of paper.

He caught sight of the smile on Aragorn’s face as they headed into the house, dim after the light from outside, and was about to make some sort of sarcastic remark when someone said his name from behind and he whirled round, smile faltering.

“Master Baggins.”

“Master Oakenshield,” Bilbo said coolly. He met Thorin’s gaze head-on, clenching his jaw and ignoring the swooping feeling in his stomach at having those blue eyes focused on him.

“I was hoping that perhaps you would feel inclined to inform me of what our plans are,” Thorin said and Bilbo only just resisted the urge to grind his teeth, his jaw aching from being clenched so tightly. Yavanna, Thorin thought he was _so superior_ , _so put-upon –_ “Seeing as you haven’t seen fit to grace us with your presence since we arrived here.”

Bilbo felt his hands curl into fists and _oh_ he wanted to wipe that look off Thorin’s face, that glare that told Bilbo Thorin thought he was worse than the dirt on his boots–

“Master Baggins has been with me, I’m afraid, Master Oakenshield,” Aragorn said smoothly, stepping forward and his hand coming up to rest on Bilbo’s shoulder in warning. “If you want to blame anyone for his absence, blame me, not him.”

Thorin’s gaze left Bilbo to settle on Aragorn, his brow furrowing the slightest amount as he took in Aragorn’s familiar touch to Bilbo’s shoulder. His eyes returned to Bilbo, something unreadable in his gaze that made Bilbo feel incredibly small and uncomfortable and subsequently very _angry_ before he gave a short nod.

“As you say. But even so, I think it is not unreasonable to wish to be informed of what inevitably concerns myself and my kin, and our immediate future.”

“Of course not,” Aragorn conceded. “Bilbo will be happy to speak to you and your people after lunch, which will be ready in a few minutes.”

“I think _Bilbo_ is perfectly capable of deciding his actions for himself,” Thorin said, his voice frosty and gaze on Aragorn sharp enough to cut. Bilbo couldn’t resist the snort of derision and anger that escaped him then, causing Thorin’s attention to shift back to him.

“I will speak to you after lunch, as Strider has said,” he snapped, noticing and ignoring the way the muscle in Thorin’s jaw jumped as he clenched it. “Now _if_ you’ll excuse me, we have something to do and then we’ll join you all to eat.” And with that he promptly turned around and stormed out of the room, ignoring Thorin and not stopping to check if Aragorn had followed him.

He didn’t hear Aragorn enter the room, but then he never did; the Rangers were just as silent and stealthy as the Children. He deposited his armful of arrows on the workbench, perhaps a little more forcefully than was strictly necessary but Yavanna help him he’d had it up to _here_ with Thorin Oakenshield, pompous and superior and unreadable.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Aragorn’s voice interrupted Bilbo’s bitter musings, a slight hint of amusement in it. He stood next to Bilbo as he sorted his utensils, clearing them away. Bilbo didn’t look at him, instead shooting death glares at his pile of arrows.

“You see what I have to put up with,” he groused. “ _That man_ is so stubborn and self-important and why I agreed to this is beyond me–”

“ _That man_ is worried,” Aragorn said quietly. Bilbo jerked his head up, staring open-mouthed at Aragorn, who glanced at him with a small smile playing on his lips. “He’s looking to you for guidance because he can’t be the one to provide it, and that scares him.”

Bilbo meant to say something but no sound came out and he snapped his mouth shut again, instead shooting Aragorn a glare. “You’re supposed to be on my side,” he said eventually, a little reproachfully, and looked down at the work bench beneath his hands.

Aragorn laughed. “Of course I am, and I always will be. But I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Bilbo, and it’s not hard to see how much he respects you. Looks to you for guidance, for help. And yet you avoid him.”

“You don’t understand, Aragorn,” Bilbo said sharply, scooping up the pile of new arrows and carrying them over to a basket at the other end of the work bench; moving helped distract him from the feel of Aragorn’s searching gaze on him. “It’s more complicated than that.”

Aragorn made a humming noise of agreement and Bilbo turned to face him with a hard glare, but Aragorn was unfazed. “All I’m saying is that it’s not hard to see why he behaves as he does when you _have_ been avoiding him. Not that you don’t have a reason for doing so, but still. Put yourself in his position.”

Bilbo scrunched up his face and put his hand to his face, massaging away the headache he could feel brewing at his temples. He let out a heavy sigh. “I think you’re overestimating his regard for me, Aragorn. He’s made no secret of the fact I’ve been a thorn in his side ever since this whole venture began, and there’s no reason for that to have changed.” He tingled with the memory of touches, hands gliding over bared skin and words whispered in his ear; he fought away the memories and remembered sensations. They had been born of a foolish mix of adrenaline and an ill-timed lack of judgment; whatever desire had been felt on his part…it had simply been that: lust, a primal instinct after too long alone. That was all.

Aragorn just shrugged. “As you say. But whatever’s gone on between you…don’t let it get in the way.” His glance as he finished speaking suggested he had an inkling that was far too accurate for Bilbo’s liking.

“No need to worry,” he said stiffly. “I won’t allow that to happen. I’ll meet with him after lunch as I said, and we’ll decide on a plan, as we said. Our _relationship_ is entirely business.”

Aragorn said nothing and if Bilbo sorted the arrows a little more carefully than was technically required, his friend had the grace not to mention it. When they were done, Bilbo followed Aragorn out of the workshop and back to the main room, where Gilraen was carrying over a pile of plates to the large table, covered in platters of bread rolls, hard cheese and cured meats.

“Bilbo dear, would you let them know the food is ready?” she asked him as she set the plates down. Bilbo hummed in acquiescence and made his way to the door. He stepped out into the bright sunshine and was immediately attacked by Fíli and Kíli, who were in the middle of a very serious game of tag with Bifur and Bofur, if the older Sons’ faces red with exertion were anything to go by. He couldn’t help being caught up in their infectious happiness, especially when Bofur grabbed him around the middle and declared him caught, his cheerful exuberance impossible to remain indifferent towards.

Chuckling, he fended off his attackers and gestured back to the cottage. “I came out to tell you lunch is ready,” he said, smiling at the enthusiasm with which Kíli span around, ready to pelt inside. It was a mad rush after that, everyone jostling each other good-naturedly and the air loud with boisterous cheerfulness. All except for Thorin, who stood apart from his Sons and simply watched them as they gathered inside. Bilbo shook his head with no small amount of annoyance and followed the others inside, leaving Thorin to do as he would – it’d be his own fault if there was no food left by the time he deigned to join them.

But join them he did, and Bilbo couldn’t help but be aware of him. Unconsciously drinking in the way he moved, the surprisingly gentle movements of his hands, the small smile that one of the Sons would occasionally manage to coax out of him with a well-timed comment or joke. Never once did his eyes stray to Bilbo, who was left with a surprisingly bitter taste in his mouth at this realisation, and he only grew angrier with himself when he noticed quite how much his own gaze had fallen on Thorin.

All too soon for Bilbo’s liking, lunch was over and Bofur and Dori were gathering up all the dirty plates, much to Gilraen’s consternation and bemusement, and insisting on washing up for her. Bilbo watched them with a tight smile, wanting just a few moments more of calm before he had to talk to Thorin and inevitably become riled up and flustered. He felt rather than heard Thorin approach him from behind, the Son’s large body throwing out warmth.

“Master Oakenshield,” he said stiffly without turning around. He glanced up in time to see Thorin wiping off his look of surprise, instead giving Bilbo a nod.

“You said we would speak after lunch.”

“Indeed I did,” Bilbo agreed, hoping he didn’t sound too tense. He stood, carefully brushing down his robes as if wiping away crumbs, though he really just wanted an excuse to not look at Thorin for a moment longer. “Well, let’s go somewhere a little quieter and we’ll talk.” He took a step forward, meaning to lead Thorin to Aragorn’s workshop where they would be away from the bustle and chatter of the kitchen, but Thorin didn’t follow. Bilbo turned to face him, frowning, and saw Thorin swallow, watching him strangely. He gave a huff of annoyance. “Would you like someone to join us? Perhaps as a witness so I don’t try any of my old tricks?” Bilbo couldn’t keep the sharpness from his voice and he bit his lip after he’d spoken, regretting it a tiny bit; Thorin’s face suddenly full of – reproach?

“I didn’t think you were going to,” he said, regarding Bilbo with that unreadable look on his face and he sounded almost hurt; Bilbo felt strangely guilty and didn’t know why. “I simply thought…I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable by being alone with you,” he said, his voice taking on a frosty edge to it and the shutters coming down over his eyes once more. Bilbo forced himself not to let his emotion show on his face and instead gave a hard laugh.

“You mistake me if you think your presence alone can make me uncomfortable, Thorin Oakenshield,” he said, hoping he sounded bored and nonchalant. “Call someone else if you’re uncomfortable, but don’t assume you have such an effect on me.”

Thorin’s face turned hard as stone and it almost scared Bilbo to see it. “If that’s how it is,” he said between gritted teeth.

“It is,” Bilbo retorted with a short nod, not taking his eyes off Thorin and ignoring the tingling it sent through him. Neither of them moved for a long while that couldn’t have been more than a few seconds in truth but felt like an Age, until a particularly loud guffaw of laughter from Bofur made them both jump and look away, Bilbo taking a deep breath now he could breathe again. He made a noise and headed into the workshop, and Thorin appeared in the doorway as he took a seat in one corner of the room.

Bilbo didn’t look at him as Thorin looked around, stepping forward slowly before taking the chair at the other end of the workbench to Bilbo. It would almost have been funny if it had been anyone else: two people sitting down to do business as far away as possible from the other. But it was Thorin, and Bilbo had to do this despite the fact his stomach was clenching and twisting and he wished he hadn’t eaten that extra roll at lunch, as it was now sitting like a stone in his tummy.

“So.”

Bilbo looked up then, Thorin’s voice loud in the otherwise quiet room, and he forced himself to meet his eyes.

“So,” he said, aiming for careless and cheerful but just coming off slightly high-pitched and breathless. “The plan.”

“I assume you have one?” Thorin asked. “Since you’ve been so busy since we arrived.”

Bilbo frowned at him. “I told you, I’ve been with Strider. His people are the ones housing us, and it’s not exactly easy.” Thorin didn’t say anything, just continued looking at Bilbo expectantly. Bilbo sighed. “But yes, I have a vague plan. Our priority is to relocate back into the city, and that will require me to go back to Arda tomorrow–”

“I’m coming with you,” Thorin interrupted.

“No you’re not,” Bilbo shot down that suggestion flatly.

“Yes, I am,” Thorin said, his gaze turning into a glower. “It’s _my_ people we’re talking about, and I will be the one to find us a place to stay.”

“You are _not_ going back to Arda, Thorin, at least not for a few days. You’re _injured,_ or had you forgotten?” Bilbo snapped.

“It was a flesh wound,” Thorin said. “It will heal.”

“You were pierced by an _arrow_ , Thorin! On your chest! An inch lower and you’d be _dead_!”

“Even so, I will come with you.”

“Thorin, Yavanna help me, I can’t let you–”

“You can’t _let_ me do anything,” Thorin retorted, his voice low and dangerous. “You are not in charge of me, Master Baggins; we are allies and you are not my _superior–”_

“Thorin Oakenshield, will you stop being such a stubborn, pig-headed _ass!”_ Bilbo exploded, and the sudden silence was deafening. The only sound in the room was Bilbo’s heavy breathing as he met Thorin’s glower, his heart thumping so rapidly it felt as if it would beat right out of his chest. Still Thorin didn’t say anything and Bilbo had to resist the urge to fidget, the silence becoming too much to bear.

“Sorry,” he offered, slightly chagrined. “But you never listen! You always have to be right,” he continued, warming to his theme and ignoring Thorin’s flinty expression; the Son might as well have been made of marble for all the reaction he had to Bilbo’s words. “You can’t ever just accept that maybe I’m right, that for once someone else could be in charge and do it well! Or that maybe I actually have a very good reason for saying these things, such as keeping you bloody well alive!  Or–” he paused to take a breath and gather his thoughts.

“Don’t let me get in the way,” Thorin said bitingly. “Do carry on, you’re doing so well.”

“ _There_!” Bilbo replied angrily. “That’s what you do! You are _always_ belittling me, as if I’m not even worthy of cleaning your boots when we both know that I am the only reason the Sons are still _here–”_

“Ah yes, our _hero,”_ Thorin snarled, standing and his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Don’t stop! Don’t let me ever forget how dependent we are on you, how our debt to you includes our lives as well as everything else!”

“Because it’s true!” Bilbo stood too, grateful for the expanse of room that separated them so Thorin wasn’t towering over him. “And you know it, Thorin Oakenshield, you _know_ that I’ve earned your respect over and over again and yet you still treat me like dirt!”

“You’ve made your opinions of the Sons very clear, Master Baggins,” Thorin was shouting too, his voice so full of anger and pain Bilbo almost physically flinched. As Thorin spoke he started to advance, drawing closer to Bilbo, who stepped back with every step Thorin took towards him. “I’m well aware of what you think of us, just because we’ve been reduced to almost nothing. I know you find us uncouth and rude, because we don’t take _afternoon tea_ with our _teapots_ and our _flowers_ ,” the vitriol in his voice was so bitter Bilbo felt the words burning him, Thorin’s eyes boring into him fiercely as Bilbo bumped into the workbench behind him – trapped between it and an advancing Thorin who was now too close for comfort, “but don’t you _ever_ think for _one moment_ that you are any better than us.”

“I never–”

“Thorin?” Balin appeared in the doorway and for a moment Bilbo couldn’t look away from the fire in Thorin’s eyes; he was close enough to count every eyelash, blocking Bilbo in and Bilbo’s mouth was dry. But then Thorin tore his eyes away from Bilbo, his chest heaving as he breathed heavily.

“Balin,” he said shortly, his voice at a normal volume again. Bilbo needed to move, escape the heat of Thorin’s body but he felt trapped, incapable of movement, and it was so hard not to remember the last time they’d been this close–

“I heard raised voices,” Balin said, his tone of voice telling them exactly what he’d heard.

Thorin said nothing and then he turned back to Bilbo, pinning him in place once again even as he stepped back and there was such _anger_ in his eyes that Bilbo was frozen by it.

“Enjoy your victory, Master Baggins,” he said, venom in his voice.

“Thorin, you know I–”

“Save it for your other _friends,_ ” Thorin said coldly, turning away from him and walking towards the door. “You can all have a laugh at our expense.”

Bilbo gave an angry snort. “Maybe I _will_ ,” he shot back. “I’ll do just that! While you go and wallow and – oh you insufferable little–” the last half of that he doubted Thorin even heard, the Son sweeping out of the room before Bilbo had finished speaking, and he couldn’t resist slamming a fist down onto the surface of the workbench. He regretted it immediately, wincing as the pain left his skin stinging.

Muttering a litany of curses under his breath, Bilbo stormed out of the house, past all the carefree smiles of the Sons that turned to worried frowns as he hurried past them and ignored their greetings or questions. His only thought was to get away from there as quickly as possible and not come back for a good long while.

He headed into the trees, letting his feet lead him where they would along half-forgotten paths until he came to an abrupt stop. He’d reached a brook, shallow and clear and the sound of the water murmuring over the stones was loud in the silence of the rest of the forest. He turned to follow it as it grew steadily wider and deeper, and his heart clenched painfully as he left the cover of the trees and was met by the sight of the lake.

The sun was high in the sky and the still waters of the lake were dazzling with it, almost blinding if he looked too long. The lake went on for miles, surrounded on one side by the forest until it reached the feet of the mountains beyond. The mountains were the dark purple of a bruise on the near horizon, even in such weather, a stark contrast to the bright blue of the sky and the luscious green of the grass and trees that adorned the lower slopes. There were dandelions and buttercups dotted around in the grass and Bilbo unconsciously walked forward towards the shore of the lake, leaving the grass behind until his boots crunched on the sandy dirt.

Bilbo wasn’t taking in the view, however beautiful it might be. All he could see was this same view but the skies overcast and grey, the trees nearly naked save for the last smattering of fiery orange leaves, and a boat being pushed out onto the water before being lit with a flaming arrow.

He hadn’t been back here in fifteen years and he hadn’t expected it to hurt this much. They hadn’t even had a body to send off, having to make do with Beregond’s cloak and daggers instead of him. Bilbo still didn’t know what had happened to his body – probably one of those too blackened and burnt to be identified that had been hastily buried in a communal grave in the aftermath.

Bilbo let out a shaky breath and sat on a rock near the water’s edge, his legs giving out beneath him so he landed heavily, his breath leaving him in a rush.

He simply sat there, letting the sun warm him and the wind catch at his hair while he remembered. He remembered the first time he and Beregond had met, during a meeting between his mother and the Chief of the Rangers. Bilbo had been only eight, Beregond two years older and already beautiful. He was everything Bilbo wasn’t – tall, elegant, lithe and strong. He’d seemed like a deity to the young Bilbo as he’d watched him sparring with his older brother, something untouchable and distant. That notion had been swiftly discarded when Beregond had noticed Bilbo’s wistful face peering around the corner of the building and his own face had split with a grin so wide it had been impossible for Bilbo not to return it. All of a sudden Beregond had abandoned his brother and was by Bilbo’s side, enquiring who he was with such cheerfulness Bilbo hadn’t even felt shy.

He’d begged to be able to go back the next time his mother met with Arathorn, and soon enough Bilbo had met the rest of Beregond’s family – Arathorn and Gilraen and his brother Aragorn. Beregond and he became inseparable and when Bilbo’s father had died he’d gone to stay with them in Arnor for a time.

It was hard to pinpoint when exactly Bilbo had fallen in love with him, or at least thought he had – he had been young, after all – but perhaps it was devotion, more than love. Whatever it was, whatever it had been, Bilbo had never been happier than when he and Beregond were running wild together, causing mischief and getting into trouble. At sixteen Beregond had been gorgeous, his face strong and handsome with the brightest blue eyes, his mop of dark hair framing his face perfectly. Everyone loved Beregond, with his easy humour and natural charm, and it was impossible not to get swept up in it. Especially for a fourteen year-old Bilbo, still shorter than everyone else with a face too round and build too stocky to ever be anything but homely; but none of that mattered when Beregond had smiled at him, laughed with him, held his arm as they ran together. 

Sitting there in the sun, Bilbo screwed up his eyes and tried to remember Beregond’s face, but every time he tried he saw a noble jaw instead of Beregond’s sharp cheekbones; long hair that was black as night instead of Beregond’s dark chestnut; and eyes that were like the sky but too piercing to be Beregond’s.

He couldn’t stop the noise of distress that escaped his lips then, and his hand curled around a pebble and he lobbed it towards the water with a cry, all his anger and his hurt tearing out of him. Damn Thorin Oakenshield; he’d corrupted even Bilbo’s very memory of his friend and in that moment Bilbo couldn’t forgive him for that. _When_ had Thorin become so...so important to him? When had he wormed his way so deep into Bilbo’s very being that Bilbo couldn’t even remember Beregond without seeing Thorin instead? When, and _how?_

With shuddering breaths Bilbo tried to contain his emotions, wishing he had a handkerchief with him to blow his nose. Inconvenient time to have forgotten one, he berated himself, doing his best to distract himself from the other thoughts swirling around in his mind.

Not that Beregond had been perfect. Bilbo remembered the things he’d done his best to ignore when he was younger; the sometimes cruel light that would glint in Beregond’s eyes when he teased the younger children – but it was only ever teasing, and if Bilbo had ever felt unnerved by it he’d always brushed it aside. Beregond was sunshine and charm and kindness, not malicious. It was all just fun, nothing serious.

He remembered the way Beregond had sometimes relished capturing bugs and small animals and poking them, testing them. He’d shown them to Bilbo once, who’d been horrified and had immediately implored him to let them go. Beregond had done so, perhaps more to stop Bilbo from crying than anything else, but Bilbo remembered how unsettled it had made him to see those poor creatures and the fact he never knew for certain that his friend hadn’t only let them go for show. But they were young then, and what child hasn’t been morbidly intrigued by the flies that die on the windowsill or caught up in spider’s webs?

Bilbo swallowed away the bitter taste in his mouth. There was no use thinking on these things; Beregond had been dead for fifteen years, and whatever he’d done or not done Bilbo knew that Beregond had given him kindness when he didn’t have to; he’d given him friendship purely because he could, and in his own way he’d shown him love, of a sort. Better to think of those things, those _good_ things, than the bad.

He didn’t know how long he sat there for, staring out over the lake to the mountains beyond. It could have been minutes, it could have been years; time ceased to mean anything to Bilbo. He still couldn’t picture Beregond’s face, at least nothing clearer than a fleeting glimpse in his mind’s eye as anything he tried to examine closer distorted and shifted until all he could see was Thorin.

Thorin, who was stubborn and rude and completely ridiculous but who’d left his mark on Bilbo alright, imprinted himself deeper than just the marks on his neck he couldn’t bring himself to look at. Thorin, who made him want to shake some sense into him while protecting him from everything, from himself. Thorin, who hated Bilbo for being everything he wasn’t.

Bilbo hated feeling so conflicted, even more so for the fact that he’d hoped he could be safe here, away from Thorin and the Sons, where the air and the land spoke of Beregond; but Bilbo felt like he was sullying it by being here.

He got to his feet on aching limbs, his legs stiff from staying still for so long, and began the walk back to the little village.

 

***

 

Thorin didn’t think he’d ever been so angry in his life. His vision had clouded over as Bilbo has spoken those words and perhaps what had made him angriest of all was that he’d been _right_. But Bilbo was so _blind,_ couldn’t he see how much rested on their shoulders? Why was he so determined to side-line Thorin? Perhaps he was overreacting, seeing things wrong but Bilbo could be so damn condescending and it rankled to be spoken to as if he was stupid, too thick to understand Bilbo’s grand plans–

Thank Mahal Balin had come in when he had, as Thorin didn’t even remember how he came to be so close to Bilbo, crowding him against the workbench. He’d looked up at him with eyes blown so wide with anger and Thorin had been about to reach for him; in lust or something darker he wasn’t sure but he’d been saved the chance of finding out by Balin’s well-timed appearance.

How was it that Bilbo could do such things to him? To make him want to hold him close while simultaneously making him want to pull his own hair out in frustration? Thorin hadn’t looked around as he’d left, determined to get away as fast as possible and he had no idea where Bilbo had gone.

A traitorous part of him wondered if Bilbo really had gone to have a laugh at their expense, but he was mostly sure he wouldn’t have. He thought he’d known Bilbo well enough to have an idea of his character, but then again, sometimes people could surprise you. And he _was_ close to that Strider man – Thorin remembered seeing his hand come up to rest on Bilbo’s shoulder in a gesture that spoke of years of friendship, and the two seemed to share such an open, easy relationship… bitterly Thorin noted that he and Bilbo seemed completely unable to be civil to one another, completely incompatible, though at times it had seemed as if they’d had the potential to be something so much better.

He followed Balin to the room downstairs that served as their room and was grateful everyone else was enjoying the sunshine outside, as it meant there was no one around to witness his agitation. Balin was looking at him sternly, his mouth a thin line, and he stood there while Thorin paced. He felt restless and angry and his blood was still coursing hot and heavy through his veins.

“What was all that about, Thorin?” Balin asked quietly.

“No doubt you heard every word,” Thorin said irritably. Why did he _always_ end up being scolded as if he were a naughty schoolboy? “Why don’t you tell me?”

“I think everyone heard it,” Balin said sharply. “Tell me from the beginning.”

Thorin made a noise, part distressed and part derisive. Balin wouldn’t understand; noble and diplomatic Balin would have kept his cool, negotiated an agreement out of Bilbo rather than letting his anger get the better of him. He didn’t want to face a telling off from Balin, not when he knew he was right but Mahal help him, there was only a certain amount he could take.

“The usual happened,” he bit out. “I didn’t agree with what Master Baggins was saying, tried to protest it, he became riled and starting venting his spleen about myself and I didn’t react very well.” He hadn’t stopped pacing, feeling like a caged bear but unable to stand still in his agitation.

Balin gave a sigh. “I’d hoped you were beyond this,” he said and sounded _tired._ “You, and him as well.”

Thorin said nothing, though his pacing slowed.

“Where’s he gone?”

Thorin shrugged and gave a snort. “I’ve no more idea than you. Probably off to see his _Strider_ friend and have a good moan about us.” Balin made a small sound of neither agreement nor disagreement and neither of them spoke again for a short while, Thorin’s hands worrying at his sword belt.

“I feel so useless, Balin,” he said eventually, coming to a stop before his old friend and feeling his shoulders sag. “I’m the leader of our group and I can’t even keep you all safe. I’m a failure.”

“No, Thorin,” Balin said firmly, his hands reaching out to grip Thorin firmly on the forearms and his forehead coming to meet his gently, a gesture of reassurance. “Don’t think like that. You’re keeping us safe right now, don’t you doubt that.”

“Only by accepting _charity_ ,” Thorin said, his mouth curling as he spoke the word.

“And you did that despite hating it,” Balin said. “If you hadn’t accepted it we would have been lost, but here we are surviving, ready to fight another day. Don’t you ever doubt yourself, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thorin wanted to believe him so desperately. He wanted to believe he was doing a good job, that he truly was being the leader they deserved, but he felt like a puppet – made to do someone else’s bidding under the pretence of free will. He had no other choice at the moment but in truth he was terrified – he was terrified that something would go wrong, something he had no control over, and because he’d placed his trust in error his people would suffer.

It was why he _needed_ to go to Arda, to be the one to find their new quarters. He needed to know for himself that it was right, leaving nothing to chance, but Bilbo couldn’t see that. He was powerless right now, his role as a Son of Durin counting for naught, and Thorin Oakenshield was scared.

But he nodded as if Balin’s words comforted him, and with a small pat to Thorin’s arms Balin left him then. Thorin stayed where he was, wishing he could believe the words and wishing most of all that he could _do_ something. Perhaps when Bilbo got back he could try…

No. He understood perfectly well where he stood with Bilbo now, and he wasn’t going to apologise. That was up to Bilbo this time, and until then, Thorin was perfectly fine to go back to how they’d been on so many occasions before: ignoring each other. He’d get Balin to speak to him about plans in the future; the older Son would mind his temper better and Thorin hoped Bilbo would keep his vitriol to himself if he was dealing with Balin.

Nodding to himself, Thorin then made his way upstairs and went to find Dwalin. The other man was sitting next to Ori, watching as the scribe sketched in his small leather notebook; Thorin caught sight of Dori watching them suspiciously.

“Dwalin,” he said, trying not to smile when Dwalin jumped and looked sheepish before realising who it was who’d spoken, his gaze turning into a scowl as he stood up.

“Thorin,” he greeted him. Thorin gestured for him to follow him and started heading around the back of the house, away from watching eyes.

“I want you to spar with me,” Thorin said, rolling his shoulders experimentally. After Óin’s salve yesterday his chest only twinged the tiniest amount with the movement, which he was pleased with. He caught sight of Dwalin’s face then, looking at him like he was mad.

“Are you joking?”

“No,” Thorin replied irritably. “Why would I be?”

“Because – Thorin, you didn’t see your face yesterday before Óin could fix you up. You were grey and sweating and I’ve only seen you that bad a couple of times before – you’re definitely in no state to be wanting to spar!”

“Are you saying I’m incapable?” Thorin demanded, annoyance flooding through him. “Does everyone seem to think that I’m too weak and feeble to do anything?”

“Of course I’m not, Thorin,” Dwalin said, looking at Thorin strangely. It made Thorin’s throat burn. “But you’re expecting too much from yourself, that’s all.”

“I’m doing _nothing_ , Dwalin,” Thorin bit out. “I’m sitting here feeling sorry for myself while _Bilbo_ organises our futures and I can do nothing to help, and I hate it.” Dwalin said nothing at that, but he nodded. “I hate feeling so powerless, Dwalin. I just wanted to do something so I can feel myself again.”

Dwalin gave him a punch to his arm on his uninjured side. “It wouldn’t be a fair fight if we were to spar now,” he said with a grin. “Beating you would be easy and I wouldn’t want to knock your confidence.”

Thorin gave a snort. “As if,” he said, but followed Dwalin back all the same and nothing more was said about it. He forced himself to be content with doing nothing, with being idle, but he couldn’t stop the impatience that burned in his gut at times.

 He didn’t see Bilbo until long after they’d eaten dinner and cleared up, and Fíli and Kíli were sitting with Gilraen’s younger son Estel by the fire telling each other stories. He was a couple of years older than them, nearing his teenage years, but not too old to join in.

Thorin was smoking a pipe with Balin by the door, which was thrown open to allow the cool night breeze in, when he spotted Bilbo’s white cloak break through the tree line and he tensed. As he approached Thorin noticed the dirt on his cloak, the twigs that were stuck in his hair; his heart did an uncomfortable flip before he could stop it. Bilbo didn’t even look at him as he passed and entered the house, but Thorin couldn’t help but watch him.

Gilraen stood as he entered, eyes wide as she took in his muddied state.

“I went to see him,” Thorin heard Bilbo say plaintively before Gilraen reached for him and ushered him through to another room. Bilbo didn’t come back out before Thorin was encouraging the others to bed, and if he had slept on the pallet downstairs Thorin didn’t know as it was empty when he woke up.

He was sitting at the table with a cup of tea when Thorin entered the main room, most of the others still asleep downstairs. Gilraen and Estel weren’t around and Thorin was sorely tempted to turn back around and hide, and hope Bilbo hadn’t noticed him, but that hope was swiftly dashed when Bilbo spoke.

“Good morning, Thorin.”

“So it’s ‘Thorin’ again now, is it?” he asked mulishly, ignoring the tingling in his stomach as he approached the table and sat across from Bilbo. The Child poured him a cup of tea and pushed it across the table towards him; Thorin accepted it and watched Bilbo closely, unnerved by this change in him from yesterday.

“I’m sorry for what I said yesterday,” he said calmly, looking up and meeting Thorin’s gaze before quickly looking down at his drink again. “I shouldn’t have said what I did, and I certainly shouldn’t have let how I feel get in the way of this quest.”

Thorin didn’t know what to say, so he busied himself with taking a sip of the tea and ignoring Bilbo’s gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo said again and Thorin noticed how tense his shoulders were; like a skittish horse about to bolt.

Thorin shrugged. “I won’t pretend it doesn’t matter,” Thorin said slowly. “But I should have handled it better. I think… I think it would be better for both of us if you go through Balin from now on.”

Bilbo’s shoulders slumped at his words and Thorin tried not to show how much Bilbo’s relief at his words affected him. He didn’t look in Bilbo’s direction, afraid what he’d see on his face.

“You’re probably right,” Bilbo said, his voice still slightly clipped. “I suppose that way is for the best.”

“Yes,” Thorin said, eyes fixed on the table.

“I’m going to Arda today,” Bilbo said and Thorin did look up then. Bilbo wasn’t looking at him, his fingers tracing a burn mark seared onto the wood. “Would you like me to communicate to Balin all the reasons I would advise against you coming?”

Thorin shook his head, frowning in irritation. “That won’t be necessary,” he said shortly. Balin had in fact told him all the reasons he shouldn’t go already, last night before they went to sleep. Much as Thorin hated it, he listened to Balin.

Bilbo looked vaguely irritated as well as he replied, “Good. I don’t know how long I’ll be away for, but Gilraen will look after you all until I get back.”

Thorin simply nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He was afraid if he opened his mouth he’d accidentally let spill all of his worry, implore Bilbo to be careful and stay safe. Bilbo knew to stay safe; if Thorin said anything he’d probably just take it as an insult.

Bilbo let out a breath and then set his cup down. Thorin looked at him properly, noticing how pale he looked and his curls were a little flatter, less lustrous than usual, and he wanted to reach out and hold those hands that were nervously tapping the table–

Bilbo stood then, wrapping his cloak around him. It was a fresh one, no trace of the dirt that had covered him yesterday.

“I’m going now, then,” he said and Thorin just gave another nod.

“See you soon,” he said. _Don’t you dare let anything happen to you, I’ll never forgive myself if it does, you’d better come back to me – to us._

“All too soon, I expect,” Bilbo quipped, though it was half-hearted at best, but Thorin smiled nonetheless and his heart twisted painfully at the small smile it coaxed from Bilbo. He started heading towards the door.

“Thank you,” was all he said and he didn’t know if Bilbo heard it; when the Child was gone he put his head in his hands and sighed.

Why was nothing ever simple with Bilbo Baggins?

 

*

 

Thorin did his best to continue on as normal while Bilbo was away, but here in the middle of an unknown forest where everything was foreign to him, normal was rather hard to come by. He made sure that by the time the rest of the Sons were awake he had managed to push aside his worry, appearing just as stoic as he always did.

Their foreign surroundings didn’t seem to bother the other Sons too much, most finding ways to keep themselves occupied. Ori was happy scribbling away in his notebook – did he always keep a spare in his jacket, Thorin wondered, just in case of escape attempts like theirs before? – and Bofur was enjoying himself keeping Fíli and Kíli occupied. Sometimes the child Estel would join in, when he managed to overcome his shyness.

Óin spent much of the day dozing in the shade of the trees and Glóin was never far from him, his hand unconsciously worrying the locket he kept under his cloak that Thorin knew held pictures of his wife and son. Balin was happy to sit inside and talk with Gilraen when she wasn’t too busy; Dwalin and Dori seemed to be constantly engaged in a subtle battle for Ori’s time and attention, though neither of them would admit it. Unfortunately for the both of them Ori was too engrossed in his sketching and writing to pay much attention to either of them.

Throughout the day various Rangers, often in cloaks like the one Strider wore, would come and make conversation for a few minutes, but mostly the people in this hamlet left them to it; Thorin noticed the curious looks they would shoot them from their front door or the wondering glances as people passed them. It made him slightly uncomfortable and only served to remind him that they were foreigners here, temporary.

Bilbo wasn’t back in the evening and Thorin reminded himself that Bilbo hadn’t given a time to expect him back – these things took time, after all.

After dinner, which they’d eaten with Gilraen and her sons and had been a comfortingly noisy affair, they had fallen into a contented quiet as they drifted off – some to bed, some to simply sit and enjoy it – Thorin noticed Strider by the door, his lit pipe casting an orange glow onto his face that deepened the shadows around his eyes, making them glint in the dim light of the room. Thorin pulled his own pipe from his cloak and began to fill it, joining Strider in the doorway. Strider glanced at him and gave a nod, his gaze returning to the edge of the forest.

They stood like that for a few moments, Thorin pulling on his pipe and working out the most diplomatic way to go about asking what he wanted to.

“Why are you helping us?” he blurted out, cursing his lack of tact. Of the Durin children it had always been Frerin who’d been gifted a silver tongue, able to worm his way out of whatever trouble he’d been able to persuade them to join him in making.

Strider said nothing for a long moment, blowing out a cloud of smoke before he spoke. “You need help,” he said simply, “and we can help you.”

“No,” Thorin contradicted him, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t do that for complete strangers, at least not so many of them.”

Strider turned to look at him. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “But we would do it for a friend.”

“You do it for Master Baggins,” Thorin said shortly, hoping he wouldn’t trip up over Bilbo’s name.

Strider only smiled. “Yes, we do it because Bilbo asked us to. Does that bother you, Master Oakenshield?”

“I would know what bond means you would welcome complete strangers into your home and entrust them with your secrets.” From what Balin had learned from Gilraen, it was rare indeed for outsiders to be allowed access into the village, let alone be housed and fed there for any length of time.

Strider looked away from Thorin, back out across the clearing towards the trees. “What bond indeed,” he said softly, so low Thorin wasn’t sure the words were meant for him to hear. “Bilbo means more to this family than you can ever imagine, Master Oakenshield. He means more to _me_ than you can imagine.” He gave a sigh then, wiping a hand across his face and for a moment there was a flash of such strong emotion in his eyes that Thorin looked away, feeling as if he was witnessing something he shouldn’t. He felt a little sick then, something hot coiling in his belly and snaking around his lungs. He suddenly felt very inadequate next to this Ranger – he was tall, lean and elegant in his movements; soft spoken yet commanding. He was dark and strong and yet so very different from Thorin, and Thorin couldn’t bear to be in his presence a moment longer. Not when Bilbo… well. It was only surprising he hadn’t seen it sooner.

“I understand,” Thorin said, his voice cracking on the last syllable. He turned to go back inside, away from Strider, away to where he could _think_ in privacy–

“No you don’t,” Strider’s voice stopped him in his movements, but Thorin didn’t turn around. “I know what you think you understand, but you’re mistaken.” Thorin felt his brows furrow into a frown.

“What do you mean?” he asked gruffly, turning to face Strider again. The man had a small smile on his face, looking vaguely amused and it would have annoyed Thorin no end were he not focused on finding out what Strider meant.

“Bilbo and I are not lovers,” Strider said, his amusement clear in his voice. “He is as a brother to me, and that’s all.” Thorin couldn’t deny that the constriction around his lungs lessened a fraction, enough to let him breathe again. Strider’s smile slipped when he spoke again. “We’ve known him since he was a boy, which would be reason enough. But something happened, fifteen years ago–”

“He told me,” Thorin said thickly. “His friend died in Smaug’s inferno.”

That small smile reappeared on Strider’s face, though it was thin-lipped and tight with pain. “His friend…” he whispered, trailing off before shaking his head. “Bilbo was with my brother that day, Master Oakenshield, just as he had been nearly every day for the past six years if they could. Beregond’s death affected us all and only tied Bilbo to this family even more tightly.”

Thorin felt as if he’d been punched. “He...He was your brother?” Strider gave a short nod. Thorin didn’t waste his breath on a pointless apology and Strider didn’t seem to expect one.

“My brother never said anything to me but Bilbo was never very good at hiding things, except from maybe the one person that mattered. When my brother was killed, it was more than just the death of his best friend, Master Oakenshield.”

That hot claw was making itself felt again, squeezing the breath out of him. Thorin could only nod before turning and hurrying away, leaving Strider by the door, until he’d reached the thankfully-empty workshop. He hadn’t realised his hands were clenched into fists at his side and he made himself loosen them, placing his palms flat against the wood. He focused on his breathing, shuddering gasps all he could get past the coil that had snaked its way around his lungs again, tighter than before.

Thorin should never have let this happen, should have guarded his emotions better, should have had some _self-restraint_ –

No wonder Bilbo could barely bring himself to look at Thorin. No wonder he’d distanced himself from Thorin after...after what they’d done. No wonder...and Thorin was powerless in his despair.

He was still completely and foolishly in love with Bilbo Baggins; but what chance would he ever have, when Bilbo was still in love with a dead man?

 

*

 

When Bilbo finally returned, after a second night away, he seemed far too chipper for that early in the morning. Thorin would almost say he seemed like his old self – the cheerful, confident and fussy Child who had first arrived in their underground tunnels. Thorin almost couldn’t bear to look at him, knowing what he did now and more importantly, knowing that his heart could no more stop the somersaults and butterflies it felt every time Bilbo looked in Thorin’s direction than the sun could keep from rising and setting. Thorin didn’t know whether to hate himself or Bilbo more – himself, for being too weak to stop himself feeling like he did, or Bilbo, for simply existing and making him love him despite everything.

Thorin could only thank Mahal that he could still adopt a mask, this one of neutral feelings towards an ally, and that it didn’t slip.

After Bilbo’s arrival things happened in a rush. Suddenly they were once again dividing into groups, packs of food being pressed into their arms and bags by Gilraen and Estel and Bilbo overseeing it all while seeming...preoccupied. When it came to saying goodbye, there was a strange sense of finality about it – these people had been kind to them, looked after them, and yet they were unlikely to see them again. Gilraen seemed almost shy as she said her goodbye to him and told him to be careful, and Thorin smiled and clasped her hand.

“If ever you need our help, come to us,” he said. “There’s an inn in Arda, in Erebor. The innkeeper is one of us, his name is Bombur; tell him I sent you and he’ll get us to you.”

Gilraen squeezed his hand in return, her eyes crinkling as she smiled at him.

“You are a good man, Thorin Oakenshield, and I’m glad to have met you, even under such circumstances.” And with that she turned and hurried back inside the cottage, leaving Thorin to re-join his companions.

They were all ready, forming a group at the edge of the glade. Only Bilbo was missing; Thorin could see him by the house speaking with Strider, their heads bowed low and close together. Bilbo looked troubled and Strider had his hand clasped around Bilbo’s forearm; despite what he’d said the night before, Thorin couldn’t help but feel resentful at how close the two were. That hot feeling was threatening to resurface again and he quickly turned away, assuming a mask until finally Bilbo approached.

“Right then,” Bilbo said, sounding cheerful in a way that belied the crease that remained on his brow. “Make sure you all stay close.” Thorin couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes at that and was grateful Bilbo couldn’t see him; he also couldn’t prevent the bitter taste in his mouth as they started following Bilbo into the trees. Once again Thorin had been made redundant. He _knew_ it was necessary and he _knew_ Bilbo was the only one who could lead them safely back into the city, but it didn’t make it a sweeter pill to swallow. The fact remained that Thorin was currently a leader in name only, no matter what Balin told him, and only once they were back in Arda and Thorin could resume his usual activities would he stop feeling so powerless and bitter.

The journey through the forest didn’t take as long as the way to Strider’s village had; the going was easier and they soon reached the city walls on the edge of Greenwood. Thorin was busy taking in the state of them, crumbling and falling apart in places, and he didn’t notice Bilbo approaching until suddenly the Child spoke beside him, nearly making him jump.

“We need to split up into groups,” he said and Thorin looked at him in surprise. “We can’t attract attention, whatever we do.”

“You head one group,” Thorin said. “Balin will head another and I’ll take the rest.”

Bilbo gave a short nod, not looking at Thorin. “Head for Rohan.” Thorin looked at him in surprise.

“Rohan?”

Bilbo nodded. “Head for an inn called the Meduseld; we’ll meet back up there.” He opened his mouth, as if he was going to say something more, before he shook his head. “I’ll tell Balin.”

Thorin watched him go, then set about organising the splitting of the Sons into groups. Bilbo set off with Bofur, Bifur and Glóin, Balin with Dori, Ori and Óin and Thorin with Dwalin and Fíli and Kíli. They staggered their departures from their spot behind the wall, still hidden in the tree cover; Thorin went first, and Balin and Bilbo’s groups would wait a while before leaving.

Thorin and Dwalin didn’t speak much during the journey, and even Fíli and Kíli were more sombre than usual, holding onto Thorin and Dwalin’s hands and following without incident, as if they realised how important it was for them not to draw attention to themselves. It broke Thorin’s heart all over again at this life they led, children learning to be adults long before their time just to be able to exist; if Fíli noticed that he squeezed her hand just a little tighter she didn’t say anything, just patted his hand with her free one and they continued on their way.

They reached the Rohan district not too much later, thankfully there not being too many guards to avoid and not so many people that it was impossible to move. Rohan was near the edge of the city, where the land was flat and grassy plains stretched out to the east towards Angmar, and the streets here were wider and lined with hay. More often than not Thorin had to step over a pile of horse dung, and the further into the district they got the more they had to stop to avoid being trampled by a horse pulling a cart.

Thorin knew where to find the Meduseld inn; while he may not frequent this part of the city as often as other parts, he’d had a fair few assignments that had brought him here in the months before Bilbo. The Meduseld sat at the top of a low hill, a little higher than the other taverns and cramped shops in the area, and had a distinctive golden roof. They made for it, Thorin sending down a silent prayer of thanks to Mahal for letting them reach it without incident – though he only breathed easily once they were inside and ensconced in a corner, the smell of ale and warm bread comforting despite the slight undertone of horse from the inn’s stable.

Dwalin went and ordered some drinks, fresh juice for the children, while Thorin sat surveying the room and waiting for the others to arrive.

“Don’t worry, uncle,” Fíli said. “They’ll be alright.” She sounded so sure, so certain of that fact and Thorin gave a small chuckle.

“I know,” he smiled at her, and ruffled Kíli’s hair when the lad continued to look unconvinced. When Balin finally stepped through the door with the others close on his heels Thorin’s heart flipped with relief; they caught each other’s eye as Balin took a table nearby. He gave a small nod and a smile and some of Thorin’s unease dissipated. It didn’t disappear completely though, and ten minutes after Balin’s arrival Bilbo’s group was still absent. Thorin unconsciously started drumming his fingers on the table, Dwalin fidgeting too and the children getting increasingly restless too. Kíli wanted to go and see Balin and Thorin was finding it hard to concentrate and explain why he couldn’t; his mind was too occupied imagining them caught, the Sons turned in and killed and Bilbo – Bilbo with a Templar’s sword through him that he couldn’t fend off, an arrow in his neck that even he couldn’t dodge–

These nightmarish scenarios were rendered moot when Bilbo stepped through the door, whole and unharmed and the Sons in the same condition as they’d left the Rangers in, and Thorin’s breath left him in a rush. Bilbo nodded in his and Balin’s direction, but headed over to the bar. He spoke to the bar tender for a few moments, a young man with muscled forearms and a surprisingly grim expression on his face, before the man gestured behind him and Bilbo went through, Bofur, Bifur and Glóin following.

The man glanced in their direction but didn’t approach; Thorin did his best to remain unruffled. He trusted Bilbo, despite...everything… He knew Bilbo had a plan.

After a couple of moments the man appeared by their table.

“Your rooms are ready for you, sir, if you’d like to follow me.”

Thorin stood, nodded; Dwalin and the children stood too and they followed the blonde man to a door behind the bar. They went through into a small room, the door closing softly behind them, and then Bofur’s hatted head poked out from another doorway at the end of the room.

“In here!”

Fíli and Kíli darted away and Thorin and Dwalin followed more slowly, Thorin looking around. It was sparse but clean, wooden floors and walls lacking decoration but bright thanks to a window set high up the wall. Thorin didn’t take much in of the room they then entered, his eyes immediately coming to rest on Bilbo without his realising until warmth started flooding him and he mentally shook himself, cursing.

“Thorin.”

His eyes flicked back to Bilbo, only now taking in the man beside him. He was on the older side of middle aged, his blonde hair growing paler with age but the beard that adorned his strong jaw was still mostly golden, and he had sharp blue eyes. He was smiling at Thorin in welcome, the strong features softened.

Thorin bowed his head towards the man, who returned the gesture.

“This is Théoden,” Bilbo said and Thorin forced himself not to look at him too quickly.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” he said to Théoden, whose smile only grew.

“I know. I’ve been meaning to thank you, sir–”

Before Thorin could enquire as to the reason he merited this man’s thanks, the rest of the Sons entered and there were noisy hugs and exclamations at being reunited. The journey hadn’t been long, but it had been risky, and they were all the family most of them had left. Thorin watched them fondly before remembering the man in front of him. The man was still beaming, as if Thorin was the reason for his entire being.

“I’m sure I’m grateful, but I’ve done nothing–” he began, feeling slightly flustered and all too aware of Bilbo only half an arm’s reach away.

“Oh, but you have,” Théoden interrupted him. His voice was strong, even. “You saved my Éowyn.”

“I did?” Thorin asked blankly.

“From the Dunlendings! When Mr Baggins here brought her back to me, he told me how you fought them head on. I’ll never be able to thank you enough, sir.”

“Oh – I – it wasn’t just me,” Thorin tried to protest. “Bilbo – Master Baggins was the one who found them in the first place–”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bilbo cut in. “Théoden is offering you new quarters – new permanent quarters.” He looked uncomfortable, avoiding Thorin’s gaze, and Thorin thought he must be imagining the flush that was creeping up Bilbo’s neck. Thorin looked to Théoden, waiting for confirmation of Bilbo’s statement.

“Indeed I am,” Théoden said, standing straighter. “I think they’ll suit your needs well enough. Would you like to see them?”

“Why… why would you offer us this?” Thorin asked. “What do you ask in return?”

Théoden’s gaze softened a little and he smiled again, a small one this time.

“Master Oakenshield, you gave me back my niece, though she’s more a daughter to me than anything. You gave her back to me, and nothing can ever repay that. As long as you and yours need a place to stay, to live and operate from, you shall have it from me, for as long as it is in my power to give it.”

Thorin swallowed the sudden lump in his throat.

“Think of it as a debt repaid, Thorin,” Bilbo’s voice cut in; he didn’t quite meet Thorin’s eye but his voice was gentle. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s only a debt. It’s a debt settled.”

Thorin gave a curt nod. “Then I accept your offer,” he said to Théoden, and the words weren’t as difficult to say as he’d expected them to be, and left no bitter taste in his mouth.

Théoden smiled again and then they were following him to another open door that led to another room, this time much more furnished and homely looking. Théoden led them out to the back, the yard behind the inn and stables to the warehouse; underneath the barrels of ale there was a hidden door that led down into the earth. Torches had been lit ahead of their arrival and the smooth, yellow stone that lined the walls of this tunnel was as different as could be from the grey stone of their tunnels in Erebor but it was comforting all the same.

Théoden guided them around this annex – there were many rooms, though only one had been cleaned enough to be used, including a large room for living and one for cooking. It was perfect, and Thorin could only nod his thanks at Théoden.

“Until we get the rest of the rooms cleaned up I’m afraid you’ll have to sleep in the living quarters, on the pallets,” Théoden said apologetically. Thorin waved away his apology.

“It is more than sufficient,” he reassured him. After all, the living space here was bigger than the room they’d all been living in in Gilraen’s modest cottage.

“But there are two pallets put in one of the bedrooms,” Théoden continued, looking proud. “For yourself and Master Baggins, as the heads of your orders. We thought you’d want a little more privacy.”

Thorin’s throat was suddenly dry and he couldn’t look at Bilbo, standing beside Théoden and also avoiding his eye. Thorin gave a cough to try and clear his throat and get it working again. Mahal – he couldn’t be alone with Bilbo, not after – and Bilbo wouldn’t want to be alone with him either, he’d made that perfectly clear since that night–

“That won’t be necessary,” he said, hoping neither the Child nor Théoden noticed how hoarse his voice had suddenly become. “I will share with my kin until the rooms are ready for use.”

Théoden’s face seemed to drop for a moment but then he shrugged. “Of course, if you’d prefer.”

“I would,” Thorin nodded, glad his voice hadn’t shown him up. Bilbo suddenly brushed past him, and Thorin saw only a glimpse of a face like thunder before the Child had swept past. He looked after him, confused.

Théoden shrugged again. “Would you like to see the other entrances?”

Théoden proceeded to show him the ways in and out – aside from the entrance in the Meduseld’s warehouse, there was another which surfaced behind another inn within Rohan and one more which joined the storm gutters on the border between Rohan and Gondor.

They re-joined the others, who’d found pallets and arranged them all in the living space; Théoden left them then and returned ten minutes later with the grim-faced young man from before, who he introduced as his nephew and Éowyn’s brother Éomer; they were carrying lots of food and jugs of ale and juice and for Fíli and Kíli. Thorin noted the way the young man’s glance fell on Fíli more than once and he narrowed his eyes for a moment, though he said nothing.

“I’ll check on you tomorrow morning, make sure everything is satisfactory, but for now you eat up and rest.”

After he left, they set to eating and drinking with gusto. It felt as if it had been _weeks_ since they’d left the Rangers’ village, though it had only been a few hours, and Thorin was ravenous. The ale was flowing freely, Bofur not letting anyone’s cup become too empty, and Thorin couldn’t deny that there wasn’t something very endearing about the red blush that adorned Bilbo’s neck and face as he joined them in eating and drinking. He seemed to be ignoring Thorin completely; if their eyes met for even a brief second Bilbo froze and turned away, but more often than not his gaze seemed to simply sweep over Thorin as if he wasn’t even there. Thorin couldn’t help but wonder if it was to do with him storming off earlier, and why he’d done that, but the ale soon deemed that an unimportant topic to dwell on compared to the way Bilbo’s curls shone in the light from lamps.

They started to sing, Fíli and Kíli giggling whenever Bofur sang a rude word and Bilbo humming along too, swaying slightly – though whether in time to the song or due to the ale, Thorin wasn’t sure. It was enchanting, however, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away, grateful that Bilbo was too engrossed in Bofur and Dwalin’s rendition of the song to notice him.

Thorin accepted each refill of ale, not only because he was thirsty and they deserved it, but because when he lifted the mug to his lips he could pretend for a few short seconds that they were back in their quarters in Erebor, that Bilbo wasn’t there, and life was as it had been before. Bilbo’s presence was so...confusing and perplexing and he didn’t want to be confused anymore, so he drank. He drank even when his head started to feel stuffed with cotton wool, even when he stopped being entirely certain exactly where his hand ended and the mug began and when the number of Sons in the room seemed to double. The warmth and the laughter and the singing was so pleasant, he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, blocking out the sight of Bilbo’s smiling face, and joined in the song too, singing low and under his breath. It reminded him of his childhood, before his family had been taken from him, of carefree days, and even the memories couldn’t dampen his mood. Most likely thanks to the ale, but he simply smiled and remembered his parents’ smiling faces and Frerin’s laughter.

Soon his bladder started to protest and he heaved himself to his feet, more than a little unsteadily and cheerfully waved away the good-natured ribbing from the rest of the company at that as he headed out into the cool darkness of the corridor, heading for the latrines.

He relieved himself and was stumbling back to the living space, tripping over himself on the way and holding onto the wall even as he laughed at himself and knew he’d regret this indulgence come morning, when suddenly he collided into something too soft and warm to be stone wall and threw his arms out to catch himself on it. He opened his eyes and found himself looking into a very familiar pair of green ones.

“Bilbo,” he said stupidly, his ale-sodden brain incapable of processing anything beyond that.

“Thorin,” Bilbo’s quiet voice said. Thorin felt Bilbo’s breath ghosting over his lips and realised quite how close they were but was unable to think of a single thing he should do to remedy the situation. Instead his brain supplied him with memories of the last time they’d been this close – the night Bilbo had fixed his injury, that they’d–

He tried to stand up, but the sudden change in balance in his already-unstable frame only sent him toppling over onto Bilbo, who wobbled as well as he tried to support both their weights before he managed to right them. “Whoa there,” he said, his voice husky with the ale and Thorin couldn’t think beyond the _want_ he felt coursing through him. He shut his eyes as Bilbo pushed him upright and Thorin felt for the wall, leaning back up against it as he waited for the all-encompassing _need_ to dissipate.

There was silence in the hallway and Thorin opened his eyes, hoping Bilbo had gone; but when he opened them Bilbo was still there, standing directly opposite him and his eyes were brighter than usual, glinting in the darkness, his hair tousled and cheeks pink even in the low light.

Thorin's breath came quicker and he couldn’t stop it, even knowing he was being foolish, but the ale seemed to have disconnected his brain from his body. His brain was saying to run, leave, get back to the safety of the bright light and noise of the living room, but his body was frozen, prickling all over and yearning for Bilbo to come closer. He bit his lip when he realised Bilbo was watching him with a strange look on his face, his eyes flicking down to his lips at the movement. Thorin’s breath hitched.

They stood like that for what felt like hours but couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, before Bilbo stepped forward and closed the distance between them. One of his hands came up to rest at the base of Thorin’s neck, his hand twisting in Thorin’s hair and he stood on his toes, his mouth hovering just a scant centimetre away from Thorin’s but not quite touching. Thorin could feel their breath mingling, loud in the quiet of the corridor, and neither of them took their eyes off the other. Thorin was sure he was going cross eyed from staring at Bilbo but couldn’t bring himself to care, could barely remind himself to keep breathing, because every fibre of his being was telling him to stay still, to lean in closer and close that gap, even while his mind was screaming at him to get away–

It was Bilbo who closed the gap between them, his lips finding Thorin’s in a kiss that started off as simply a press of their lips but quickly grew more heated, Bilbo licking his way into Thorin’s mouth with a hunger that left Thorin shaking, eager to give him more, more, anything. Bilbo’s hand was twisting in his hair, the other reaching up to cup Thorin’s cheek and scratch at his beard and the feeling made Thorin groan, which only seemed to make Bilbo even more frenzied, the kiss deepening until Thorin wasn’t sure he could breathe but was absolutely sure he didn’t _want_ to if it meant stopping this kiss–

His brain had been effectively silenced, his blood rushing downwards to another part of him completely, heat coiling in his belly and his skin prickling until he felt as if he was burning up; when Bilbo stopped the kiss long enough to nip his lip not ungently before soothing it with his tongue Thorin groaned and brought his hands up to reach for Bilbo’s hips, meaning to draw him in even closer until they were pressed together. But as soon as his hands found purchase on Bilbo’s clothes, Bilbo pulled away from the kiss and let out a laugh, deep and husky and _so_ infuriating. Thorin opened his eyes, blinking as he tried to focus, and saw Bilbo’s face still only inches from his but the look on his face was stony.

In his ale-addled state Thorin tried to restart the kiss, letting out a low growl and his hands clutching at Bilbo’s hips as he leaned towards the other man; he froze when Bilbo made a small noise of disagreement and he felt an all-too familiar flash of cold metal on his inner thigh. His head rolled back and hit the wall as he lifted his hands as if in surrender, and the blade disappeared. Thorin clenched his hands into fists, just suppressing an angry snarl from escaping his throat.

He froze as Bilbo’s hand reached up to cup his jaw, a thumb running softly over Thorin’s kiss-bruised lips and it made him shiver; he wanted to lick that clever digit, draw it into his mouth–

As if Bilbo could tell what he was thinking he laughed again, though he didn’t remove his hand from Thorin’s jaw and Thorin still felt frozen in place; despite the fact he was bigger than Bilbo, he was completely under his control.

“Go and join the others,” Bilbo said, his voice low and unreadable even as his eyes still trailed over Thorin’s face, raking over him from his eyes to his jaw to his Adam’s apple, which bobbed as Thorin swallowed thickly, and his hand still held Thorin’s chin. “Sleep well,” he said, his voice sarcastic and bitter and he released Thorin’s jaw as if burned, turning on his heel and walking away, leaving Thorin stunned and aching and frustrated in the darkness.

He stood there a few moments longer, desperately trying to think clearly and regain some semblance of control over himself even as he still felt trails of fire on his body where Bilbo had touched him.

With a grunt he pushed himself off the wall and managed to stand upright before stalking back to the living quarters, where the others had stopped singing but were still drinking and laughing as they chatted noisily. They all looked up as he entered the room, their smiles dropping a little when they saw the black look on his face.

Thorin headed straight to his pallet in the corner, as far from the others as he could get and furthest from the lamps.

“You were a long time pissing,” Dwalin ventured. “You fall in or summat?”

“The party’s over,” Thorin said shortly, not bothering to reply to Dwalin’s comment. “Go to sleep, all of you. Fíli, Kíli, you two especially.”

He heard the confused silence fall at his words, though he didn’t bother to look around. He lay on his pallet facing the wall, staring at it with unseeing eyes; he heard the Sons start grumbling as they packed up the empty mugs and jugs and plates and headed to their own pallets. Balin tucked in Fíli and Kíli on the pallet next to Thorin’s and still Thorin didn’t look around. His head was still spinning and fuzzy from the ale; he was burning with resentment and frustration and still so much _need_ , unable to forget the feel of Bilbo’s clever fingers ghosting against his skin and his cock still uncomfortably hard in his breeches.

He shifted under his blanket, trying desperately to think of anything other than the feel of Bilbo’s lips on his and the feel of his hands in his hair. It was easier said than done, and he wished he was alone so he could resolve this problem a little more satisfactorily than by wishing it away.

 _Sleep well_ , Bilbo had said before disappearing, leaving him high and dry. He must have known Thorin was in such a state, that sleep would elude him for hours now. For a fleeting second, Thorin thought about marching to Bilbo’s room and sorting this little inconvenience very satisfactorily for the both of them, but he snorted at himself for even entertaining the idea. The ale had really gone to his head, if he could think Bilbo would even contemplate…

But a couple of hours ago Thorin wouldn’t have dreamed that Bilbo was going to kiss him, and yet here they were.

Why? _Why_ had Bilbo kissed him? And once again Thorin had let his body get the better of him and ignored any good sense he possessed in letting it go as far as it did. He stifled a groan as he shifted some more, wishing his head would stop throbbing and he could ignore the pressure in his breeches. He grit his teeth and lay in the darkness, reciting the precious metals and their properties his father had taught him all those years ago, while around him the Sons slept soundly, oblivious to their leader’s turmoil.

Eventually Thorin had succeeded in ignoring his arousal enough that it died, though he still felt far too hot and bothered to be truly comfortable. He finally started to drift off then, the approaching oblivion most welcome to his ale-numb brain and exhausted body, and with any luck he hoped he’d have forgotten the entire incident by morning.

 

*

 

He hadn’t.

He woke up to the sound of cheerful chattering and the light of the lamps on the wall and for a moment the lack of natural light left him disoriented. So many years of living underground and just a couple of nights above ground left him feeling confused at being in unchanging light again.

He sat up quickly and immediately regretted it, his head spinning and making him feel nauseous. Mahal preserve him, he shouldn’t have drunk those excessive mugs of ale…

“You’re awake!” Thorin winced at Balin’s exclamation, which rang in his ears and made his head throb horribly. “Quick, Kíli, run this over to your uncle,” he said and the next thing Thorin knew, Kíli was standing before him holding a mug of steaming brown liquid. He frowned at it.

“What’s this?” he asked, accepting the mug and ruffling Kíli’s hair before he scampered back next to Fíli.

“It’s tea,” Kíli pronounced, sounding very proud of himself indeed. “Mister Bilbo made us all some!”

Thorin froze with the cup halfway to his lips. “And where is...Master Baggins?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound too concerned. Memories from last night were flooding back to him and he hoped to Mahal the others didn’t notice the way goose bumps were prickling all over his skin or the flush he could feel working its way up his neck.

“He’s talking with Théoden, up in the Meduseld,” Balin told him. “He brought us all breakfast and said he wanted to speak to you once you’d woken.”

Thorin ignored the way his stomach clenched so tightly he thought he might be sick. He remembered it all with perfect clarity, though he wished he didn’t; in fact of all that had happened last night it was Bilbo’s kiss that stood out most clearly. Dinner, drinks, all of that was a haze but he remembered the feel of Bilbo’s lips on his and their bodies touching agonisingly clearly.

“Well I’m sure he won’t mind if I eat first,” Thorin said, avoiding meeting anyone’s gaze as he took another sip of tea. It helped with the fuzzy feeling in his head, and once he felt a little less unsteady he joined the others in the centre of the room where there was plenty of food left for him. He ate bread and cheese, chewing slowly – he told himself it was to avoid overdoing it after drinking so much, but if it was also putting off having to go and see Bilbo for as long as possible, then noone else had to know.

After he’d eaten he went to wash his face and freshen up until he couldn’t put it off any longer and he forced himself to head along the tunnel that led up to the Meduseld’s warehouse. He would simply act as if nothing had happened, as if he had no idea anything _had_ happened. He’d been drunk, after all, and everyone made mistakes when they’d had too much…

He entered Théoden’s private quarters behind the inn and made his way to the inn itself, busy with customers eating and chatting. Théoden and the grim faced young man from the night before were at the bar, engaging with the customers and serving drinks, but Thorin couldn’t see Bilbo. He nearly jumped when he felt a small hand on his arm and turned to find Bilbo looking at him apologetically.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” Thorin muttered, ignoring the way his arm felt it had been branded where Bilbo had touched him. “Balin said you wanted to speak to me.”

“Yes,” Bilbo said brightly. He gestured for Thorin to follow him towards an empty table and Thorin did so reluctantly. Once they were both seated Bilbo began to speak, and while Thorin couldn’t bring himself to meet his eye Bilbo seemed to have no such awkwardness on his part. “I know you said I should go through Balin, and I would, but I’m going to see one of my contacts and I want you to meet him. After all, you’re the leader of the Sons.” Thorin said nothing, just stared at the table. “Well, Balin could come instead, but I thought you’d…” Bilbo trailed off, sounding troubled. “Forget I asked, I’ll ask Balin,” he said, a note of tiredness in his voice.

“No,” Thorin cut him off. “I’ll come and meet your contact with you.” Yes, it would mean spending time with Bilbo but he needed to _do_ something, something _useful_ , and this was as good a place to start as any.

“Oh. Good.”

Thorin risked a glance up at Bilbo’s face and immediately looked away when their eyes met.

“Well then,” Thorin said, rising to his feet. “When are we leaving?”

Bilbo stood too, his hands fluttering around his robes. “As soon as you want, I suppose,” he replied.

“Right.”

“Yes.”

Neither of them looked at each other for a few awkward moments that felt like an Age, before Thorin hurriedly stood up, turning to leave.

“I’ll go and let Balin know then.”

“Yes, yes, you do that,” Bilbo nodded, also getting to his feet. Without further ado Thorin hurried out, his breath coming out in a gust. He was ridiculous.

If Balin was surprised by Thorin’s words, he didn’t show it; only quirked an eyebrow and asked, “is that really wise?”

“Bilbo will not get to me,” he said shortly. Balin didn’t say anything to that and Thorin turned and left, making his way back to the inn. Bilbo was waiting for him in Théoden’s back room, and neither of them spoke as they headed out into the streets. In fact they didn’t speak to each other the entire journey there, which Thorin was grateful for. He was so tired of feeling awkward around Bilbo.

They were headed towards the Greenwood district, on the edge closest to the walls of the Citadel. The buildings there were elegant and most clearly belonged to people of some wealth if the coloured glass in the doors and the wrought iron railings outside some of them were anything to go by, but the building Bilbo led them too was simple. It was still beautiful but simple – the exterior had the typical large windows in a rounded arch shape but the shutters were plain green wood, the door was plain brown and there was none of the fancy brickwork some houses had had added to their façades.

Bilbo knocked, the knocker a bronze bear with a gaping maw that was only a little disconcerting, and the wait before the door opened seemed to last forever.  Bilbo still hadn’t spoken to him, and Thorin opened his mouth to make some sort of generic comment just to ease the silence, but before he could the door swung open. Thorin stared for a moment before he remembered and quickly shut his mouth, his teeth clicking.

The man was _huge –_ at least two heads taller than Thorin, and the Son could see the outline of his muscles beneath his clothes.

The man’s eyes lit up when they saw Bilbo.

“Baggins,” he said and before anyone could react he’d reached down with two arms thick as tree trunks and pulled Bilbo into a hug, the Child letting out the most ridiculous little squeak as he was scooped up.

“Beorn, you can let me go now,” Thorin just heard Bilbo’s voice from where his face was pressed against the man’s chest. The man did so, though he seemed a little reluctant. His gaze landed on Thorin then and his eyes narrowed.

“Who’s this?” he asked and Thorin unconsciously straightened, his face stony as he returned the man – Beorn’s – suspicious look.

“I’ll explain when we’re inside,” Bilbo said. “You know it’s not safe to stand on the doorstep, not this close to the Citadel.”

Beorn made a grumbling noise but stood aside to let them pass, though his eyes never once left Thorin. Bilbo seemed to know where he was going as he led them to a room with armchairs and a modest fireplace, though there was no fire lit. The entire time Thorin could feel this man’s hulking presence behind him and he grit his teeth in annoyance.

“You going to tell me who this is, then?” Beorn said once they were all in the sitting room. None of them sat down, despite the worn but comfortable-looking chairs in the room. Beorn didn’t take his eyes off Thorin, who stared back in return. Bilbo let out a huff.

“Beorn, don’t be so rude,” he said, sounding mildly chiding. “This is an ally of mine. His name–” He hesitated for a moment and from the corner of his eye Thorin saw Bilbo’s gaze flick towards him. Reluctantly he stopped glaring at Beorn and looked at Bilbo, who seemed to be waiting for permission, before giving a short nod. “His name is Thorin.”

Beorn’s gaze sharpened. “Thorin? Thorin Oakenshield?” Again Thorin nodded. Beorn suddenly looked at Bilbo, his eyes sharp.

“What are you doing allying yourself with the Sons? Smaug will kill you! Why have you brought him here?” He didn’t shout but the anger and disapproval was clear in his voice – even with his stunted social skills Thorin could hear that. He felt a feeling he hadn’t felt in a while – a sick shame creeping over his skin, making it prickle uncomfortably. Shame for being who he was, _what_ he was; regret that he was born a Durin. He hadn’t been made to feel this small since before Bilbo had joined them and it made him _angry._

“Beorn,” Bilbo said firmly, “I brought him here because we are working _together –_ we’re going to bring down Smaug, and you’ll not speak to him like that–” Bilbo’s voice was strong, brooking no argument, and Thorin felt a little warmth bloom in his chest that Bilbo was defending him, coupled with the sight if Bilbo nearly having to stand on tiptoes to be able to look him in the eye. He immediately tried to damp it down; they were allies, nothing more.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Bilbo,” Beorn said, his voice dark and foreboding. “I won’t have you dying because of a _Son_ – it’s not your fight.”

“It is, Beorn,” Bilbo said and his voice was soft. “It’s Thorin’s fight, it’s my fight, it’s yours and every person in this city’s fight. Smaug has gotten away with his tyranny for too long and Thorin and I – the Sons and I – we’re going to stop him.” Beorn didn’t look convinced and Bilbo placed a hand on his arm. Thorin couldn’t help but notice it, and it definitely didn’t make his gut clench tightly before he ignored it.

Beorn shook his head as if denying Bilbo’s words but he said nothing. He looked up at Thorin again, his eyes so full of distrust it rattled Thorin to his core.

“You look after him,” he growled at Thorin, who crossed his arms.

“Master Baggins is his own person, he doesn’t need my _protection_ ,” Thorin retorted. “But you can rest assured I’m doing my best to make sure we _all_ get out of this venture unscathed.”

They glared at each other for a few minutes more before Beorn snorted and looked at Bilbo.

“Why did you come here?”

“Do I need a reason to visit an old friend?” Bilbo grinned at him and Beorn chuckled. The change that swept over his face was extreme – the lines that creased his face disappeared and the years fell away. It was only momentary, but it was enough to make Thorin wonder what had happened to this man to make him so suspicious and mistrustful.

“Of course not, but you do when you bring unexpected visitors in tow.”

“Fair point,” Bilbo conceded. Thorin felt distinctly uncomfortable here; he hadn’t expected to be subjected to such mistrust when he’d agreed to come and visit Bilbo’s _friend._ “We want your help.” Bilbo turned to Thorin. “Beorn is a banker. Nearly all of the more minor nobles in the Citadel use his bank, and some of the important ones too, which could prove to be very...informative for us.” He shot Thorin a grin then and Thorin felt a familiar stirring of excitement – of purpose. He looked at Beorn, ignoring the way the man still narrowed his eyes at him.

“If you could see your way to helping us, we could pay you for your services,” he offered stiffly. It was mostly the truth – thanks to their efforts before Bilbo they _had_ managed to refill the coffers but money was still on the uncomfortable side of tight…

“I don’t want your money, Oakenshield,” Beorn said and he sounded tired. “If you’re both intent on doing this, then you can repay me by getting rid of Smaug. I have suffered much at that man’s hands, as have too many in this city.”

“What happened to you?” The question was out of Thorin’s mouth before he could stop it and he silently cursed his lack of tact. There was silence in the room and Thorin hunched his shoulders in embarrassment; eventually Beorn spoke.

“I used to have a family. My father was a banker before me, as was his father, and his father before him. It was our trade; we were good at it and we were honest, which is more than can be said for most nowadays. But then Smaug’s power started to grow.”

Thorin remembered before he’d become the all-powerful lord of the city – a noble with more money than most put together, he’d started corrupting the city years before he’d overthrown the White Council which had ruled Arda before. It had always been a little biased towards its own elite, but it had been mostly fair and just. There had been four of them, but Thorin only knew what had become of two – Gandalf did Mahal knew what but managed to thrive, and Lord Elrond had been kept on in Smaug’s new court, perhaps as insult, perhaps so he could be watched. Lady Galadriel and Saruman hadn’t been heard from since the coup.

“Smaug started spreading lies and slandering my family’s name – perhaps he found us threatening, perhaps he just enjoyed it. We weathered it well but after the Council fell...our fortunes turned. My father and I were arrested on false charges, my sister taken. They released us but we never saw my sister again, and my father died not too long after. Whether of a broken heart or shame, I don’t know, but it’s only recently I managed to salvage what remained of our good name and our business. And now I’m alone.”

Thorin said nothing, too guilty and surprised into silence.

“Perhaps you see now why I’m reluctant for a friend to take on a tyrant such as Smaug,” Beorn said into the silence. “He’s cruel to those he calls his friends and ruthless to those he considers enemies. You of all people know this.”

“Yes,” Thorin said shortly, closing his eyes against the memories just for a moment. “I know it well enough, but I know I would not wish it on anyone else either and anyone could be next unless we stop him.” Belatedly he realised his fists were clenched and he loosened them, feeling his palms sting where his nails had cut into them. Beorn said nothing for a long moment before nodding and gesturing that they should follow him.

Hesitantly Thorin did as he was bid and heard Bilbo stand and follow behind him. Beorn led them through the house, surprisingly sparse for a house that looked so grand – the furnishings favoured dark wood and fur over the velvets and silks most preferred – until they were in his library. Books lined the walls and Thorin noted the way Bilbo smiled as they entered. A sudden whining noise made Thorin look around in sudden alertness, only to spot an old-looking dog with shaggy grey fur and large brown eyes looking at them from a cushion in the corner. Internally he chided himself for being so easily startled.

“Don’t mind old Bear over there,” Beorn said. “He’s old, he won’t hurt you.”

Thorin noticed the small smile on his face and stiffened. “I didn’t think he would,” he muttered. Beorn didn’t say anything in response, instead turning to one of the shelves and pulling out a book, nearly as thick as one of Thorin’s arms. He hefted it onto the dark oak table, where it landed with an ominous thud.

“This is one of my ledgers,” Beorn told them. Thorin stepped closer as Beorn opened the book, the thick pages split into neat columns and filled with dark ink. “In it you’ll find information on my clients – money coming in, money coming out and where it’s come from or going. How often they come to see me, who they send.”

“Beorn,” Bilbo breathed, leaning forward on the desk to try and see the ledger more clearly. “This is fantastic!”

Beorn gave a small smile. “When you’ve suffered what I have at the hands of nobility, you learn not to trust too blindly without having something to defend yourself with.”

Thorin stepped forward too, ignoring how his shoulder nearly brushed Bilbo’s. Beorn’s writing was unrefined but clear, the words and numbers he was spelling out on the yellow page before him the key to their next step, the clue to taking them one step closer to getting rid of Smaug.

“Don’t you see, Thorin?” Bilbo said beside him, his voice rising in his excitement. “With this information, we know _exactly_ who is more involved with Smaug!”

“Yes,” Thorin agreed, feeling almost breathless for a moment. “We can pay them a visit, like we did with Azdan–”

“Infiltrate their households – Nori could get his Thieves onto that–”

“And we’d know more about Smaug than he’d be comfortable with us knowing, I’m sure,” Thorin finished, finally a grin breaking out on his face as he and Bilbo looked at each other, caught up in the possibilities. He couldn’t even feel embarrassed. “Look,” he said, looking back down at the ledger and pointing to a name. “Ghash . He has regular deposits every month, and he never sends the same servant to deposit it – that’s something suspicious, and definitely something worth looking into…”

“So does this one,” Bilbo said, his finger running down the page. “Rukhun. I’ve heard that name before…” He looked up at Thorin. “Where have I heard it before?”

Thorin shrugged and returned to poring over the ledger and its contents. Yes, it was just names and numbers now, but with a little digging and spies in the right places, Thorin could find out just who was deep in Smaug’s pockets and who was involved in things perhaps they’d rather Smaug didn’t know about.

“We should speak to Nori immediately,” Thorin said, starting to pace.

“I was thinking about your sister,” Bilbo nodded. “She’d know some of these people.”

Thorin gave a short nod. “She’s staying with Nori at the moment. Maybe we should go to Bombur’s straight after this, start right away–”

“Yes,” Bilbo agreed, “we should, get a head start on this. Then those who prove to be suspicious we start to wear down – pay visits, send messages–”

They were so caught up in their thinking and throwing back and forth of ideas that Thorin didn’t even realise Beorn had left the room until he came in with a tray of three mugs of tea and some food, another huge dog at his heels and this one a lot less sleepy than the other. 

“Thought you two might want something to eat, before you forget about everything except each other,” the man said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice and his sharp eyes focussed on Thorin again.

“Beorn,” Bilbo chided, suddenly looking anywhere but at Thorin, who also felt very uncomfortable all of a sudden. Thorin accepted the proffered mug of tea, partly just for something to do with himself, and tried to ignore the now-awkward silence.

“You have a plan?” the large man asked, settling himself into one of the huge armchairs, the very-much awake dog lying across his feet and blinking up at them warily.

“Yes,” Bilbo said. “Thanks to your ledgers. Can we take notes?”

Beorn waved a hand in agreement and Bilbo busied himself writing the most promising names down while Thorin glared at the dog, who stared back primly. When he was done he stood abruptly, tucking the paper into his robes. “Come on, Thorin. Let’s go and see Nori.”

Beorn stood then, towering over them both. He walked them to the door and embraced Bilbo again.

“Stay safe, little bunny,” he said, not quite low enough for Thorin not to hear, and he scowled. He heard Bilbo laugh even as he protested at the name, but he didn’t protest enough to pull away from Beorn’s embrace. Thorin couldn’t help but wonder what the nature of their relationship was…

He realised Beorn was looking at him closely again. “If he dies…”

“I know,” Thorin said shortly. “You have permission to come after me yourself.” _Not that there’d be any point if he did_ , the thought crossed Thorin’s mind unbidden, _I’d rather die myself than let anything happen to Bilbo._ He pushed the thought from his mind.

He stepped outside and started to head down the steps when he realised Bilbo wasn’t behind him; he turned to find him and was met by a faceful of curls as Bilbo nearly crashed into him. His cheeks were pink, as if he was blushing, and Beorn had a thoughtful look on his face as he shut the door.

“Come on,” Bilbo muttered. “Let’s go.”

Thorin did as he was bid.

 

***

 

It was dark as Bilbo slipped through the streets of Rohan.

He and Thorin had gone to see Nori as planned. Tauriel and Dís had been there, and Bilbo had been slightly uncomfortable at the look Dís had given him after a while. It was as if she had seen right through him, and that was more than he wanted anyone to see. Nori had agreed to get some of his Thieves to infiltrate the households of the nobles on their list, especially after Dís had confirmed that Rukhun was in fact one of Azog’s right hand henchmen.

Bilbo crouched in the shadow of an empty market stall as he saw a guard pass by the end of the street; he felt sick to his stomach but even so, he didn’t want to make this job any harder than it had to be. He pushed himself forward when the way was clear again; he was doing this for the others. To protect them.

Once he made it to the Citadel he had an easier time of it; there were fewer Templar guards around and only a couple of times did he need to dive into a side street or take cover behind a pillar. He nearly wondered if it was even worth it, but he ignored the thought and carried on until he reached the Lonely Tower. The guards on duty recognised him and he had a brief moment of panic as two of them approached him, but all they did was grab an arm each and escort him inside. Once inside the grand entrance hall more guards came and took away his weapons, their faces devoid of any emotions, and Bilbo had to fight the instinctive wave of panic that came from being weapon-less. The two who’d escorted him inside led him to the stairs and walked him up them; Bilbo was just grateful that it was easier than the very first time he’d been here, weak and injured as he’d been then.

They left him in the same room he’d been left in then too, with the huge red crystal chandelier. And just like that time, the man appeared in the room silently enough to rival even the Children. Just like a snake, Bilbo thought.

“You came,” Smaug smiled as he approached, his smile reptilian and cold.

“Of course I did,” Bilbo bit back. “It’s not like I have much choice.”

“Oh, you do,” Smaug assured him, his voice far too smug. “Though admittedly the other option would mean death for you and your Children.” Bilbo said nothing to that, damping down the anger that burned in his belly. Smaug led him through to the other room, this time not set up for dinner and instead only a small decanter of wine on the small table beside the window, next to a plush crimson sofa. Smaug sat down on the sofa and patted the space beside him. “Sit.”

Bilbo did so.

“So what do you have for me this time?” His eyes never left Bilbo’s face as he spoke, barely blinking.

“The Sons have found new lodgings,” Bilbo told him, his chest constricting with the words and his pulse quickening. He forced himself to stay calm despite the painful knocking of his heart in his chest. “But they’re not in Arda, and not all of them are there. I don’t know where the others are.”

Smaug frowned. “But Oakenshield is there?”

“Yes,” Bilbo nodded. “He keeps me with him, but only because he still doesn’t trust me. It was difficult enough getting out this time.”

“That is disappointing, Master Baggins,” Smaug said, his voice low and soft – almost hypnotic. Bilbo ducked his head.

“Give me time. I know I can make him trust me.” Bilbo didn’t let himself think about Thorin and his _trust_ – stolen kisses, touches in the dark, the way they’d forgotten all of that in their excitement at Beorn’s.

“Yes,” Smaug almost purred. “I know you will, my little stealer of secrets. I know you will, or you know what will happen.”

Bilbo grit his teeth. “You don’t need to remind me.”

“Oh, but I do,” Smaug said, his mouth curling into a cruel smile. “Otherwise you might forget and try and cross me. You wouldn’t lie to me, Bilbo, would you?” His fingers snaked up to reach for Bilbo’s jaw, holding it softly yet firmly. His hands were warm – too warm, as if he had a fever. Bilbo felt a shiver along his spine.

“Of course not,” he said, Smaug’s fingers on his jaw muffling his words but he made no move to pull away. He refused to meet the golden eyes staring into his. “I won’t risk my people. You know that.”

Smaug let go of him abruptly. “What else do you have?”

Bilbo let out a small breath. “They’re still in confusion.” He found it surprisingly easy to lie to Smaug, despite the fact the man would kill him and all the Children if he knew. “They have no plans or allies. Thorin is so desperate to trust me, but too stubborn to do so. They want to aim for Azog next. They think he’s the key to your power.”

“That oaf?” Smaug scoffed. “He’s useful to me, I’ll admit, but hardly the key to my power. I’ll tell him to be careful.” His eyes lit up then and he looked back at Bilbo. “So they _are_ the ones who killed Bolg?”

Bilbo hesitated a moment. “No. It wasn’t the Sons.” _That_ at least wasn’t a lie. “But they wish they knew who _did_ do it.”

“It wasn’t?” Smaug sounded surprised. “I was so sure it was them. Bolg must have made more enemies than he thought.”

Smaug turned from Bilbo and reached for the wine decanter, pouring some into two glasses of red crystal. “Here, Master Baggins. Let us drink to our continued cooperation.” Bilbo took the proffered glass, knowing better than to refuse. It hadn’t gone well the first time he’d done so in his first meeting with Smaug after his hand had been forced. When he’d refused to drink, Smaug’s guards had grabbed him, the glass dropping to the floor and shattering, and held a knife to his throat while Smaug tutted over the shards of crystal on the ground. _I thought you had better manners than this, Master Baggins,_ he’d said, before gloating over the power he wielded over Bilbo.

This was their third meeting now, and Bilbo had since worked out that Smaug wouldn’t really kill him – at least, not yet. He needed Bilbo to spy for him – the man would never admit it, but he was worried about the Sons coming back. Bolg’s death had reminded him that he was not immortal, and he needed Bilbo’s reports to reassure himself that the Sons weren’t a threat; that he was as untouchable as ever. Perhaps if he knew that Bilbo lied; if Bilbo told the truth… but Bilbo wouldn’t. He fed Smaug what he wanted to hear, just the barest truth in his reports: enough that he could insist he wasn’t lying without lying, but he wasn’t above a little embellishment.

His heart broke when he thought about what he was doing – Thorin would see this as betrayal – the _ultimate_ betrayal – but he was doing it to _protect_ him. He couldn’t let Thorin fail now, and here he was in the unique position of being able to feed Smaug misinformation – this was the best way he could protect Thorin. Smaug wouldn’t – perhaps couldn’t – believe that anyone would ever lie to him, and sometimes he’d even gloat to Bilbo about his plans. Yes, to Thorin it would seem like betrayal, but…

“Drink up, Master Baggins,” Smaug’s sharp voice sounded, far too amused. “You should know by now it’s not poisoned.”

“I know,” Bilbo said, a little shortly, and took a gulp of the dark ruby liquid. It was a fine wine, but tasted sour in his mouth. Smaug refilled his glass and Bilbo had no choice but to drink it all.

His gaze wandered to the window, the small orange dots of light of the city so very far away, the inky blackness of the sea to the south. He couldn’t see Erebor or Rohan from this side of the Tower, but his thoughts wandered to Thorin without even meaning to.

He started when all of a sudden Smaug’s hand closed around his wrist, the bony fingers circling his wrist so tightly he could feel the bruises forming, and he let out a little involuntary gasp.

“There’s nothing more you wish to tell me?” Smaug asked, voice dangerous. “Your mind seems to be wandering a lot tonight, Master Baggins.”

“No,” Bilbo assured him, a little breathlessly, his heart pumping wildly. “I’ve told you everything I can.”

Smaug looked at him closely and Bilbo forced himself to meet his gaze; he didn’t even flinch when Smaug’s thumb caressed at the underside of his wrist, the tip of his thumb brushing his scarred skin.

“It’s not enough,” Smaug said, his voice soft and at odds with his words. “Next time, bring me more. Something concrete, something I can use to _kill_ the Durin scum. You know what will happen if you don’t.” He released Bilbo’s hand abruptly. “Now go, thief. Come back when you have something useful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!!!


	9. Devil's Due

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 9!! I finally got time and wifi enough to post! I hope you enjoy - I'm super excited to see what you all think about this chapter! :D

**Chapter IX**

The tunnels were silent as Thorin and Dwalin made their way to their old quarters in Erebor. The way was almost impassable in some places, rubble and blocks of stone blocking the way where the guards had knocked down their defences. A knot of worry had settled itself in Thorin’s stomach, sitting heavily; surely they hadn’t managed to get past the main defences around the entrance to the quarters? If they had – the thought of all their books and ledgers, all the information they contained – the Sons wouldn’t stand a chance if Smaug got hold of that information and renewed his assault on them.

When they reached the entrance and found it unbroken and still standing strong, Thorin let out a breath in relief. Their secrets were safe for a little longer, at least.

Together he and Dwalin dismantled the defences enough to slip inside; everything was just as it had been when they’d made their escape, if a little dustier. They walked through the stone corridors, Thorin holding their flickering torch alight and trying not to breathe in the dust that swirled around the flame as they took in the empty rooms. They stood in the living room in silence.

“It’s strange to think we won’t be coming back here,” Dwalin said, his voice gruff. Thorin made a noise of agreement.

“Hopefully soon we’ll be able to live normally again,” he said. “Without having to hide.” He’d spent so long dreaming of it – of being able to walk through the streets above and enjoy the fresh air, without worrying about who saw – that voicing it out loud felt strange, like revealing a secret part of himself.

“Aye,” Dwalin said. “Let’s hope so.”

They stood for a few moments longer before Thorin spoke again. “Come on. Let’s get what we came for.” He didn’t let on how the shadows unnerved him, the silence unnatural.

They’d come to fetch the Sons’ spare cloaks, what weapons they’d left behind, and Balin’s ledgers. Everything else would have to stay here and gather dust.

They tackled each room in turn, rolling up the cloaks and tossing them into the sack they’d brought with them; the weapons they hid under their own robes or wrapped them up in the sack. Thorin paused in Balin’s study when he saw the books that had sat in his father’s study all those years ago – he was almost tempted to take them with him – but he turned away, hardening his heart. They were just books.

As he turned he noticed Dwalin slipping something into his robes.

“What have you got there?” he asked him, surprised when Dwalin jumped and looked guilty.

“Nothin’,” the other Son replied.

“Nothing,” Thorin repeated, deadpan. “It’s obviously something, Dwalin.”

Dwalin looked uncomfortable for a moment. “It’s just some paper and quills,” he eventually muttered, opening his cloak to reveal several sheaves of parchment. Thorin raised an eyebrow at his friend. “For Ori,” Dwalin clarified, looking extremely embarrassed and Thorin took pity on him, though he couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

“Come on,” Thorin said, shaking his head and heading out of the study. “We should get back.”

They shut off the defences again behind them, just as Thorin had that day he’d fought off the guards while the others escaped. They used the tunnels just to the edge of Erebor, wary of coming across someone else in the tunnels, until they surfaced in Rohan and could use Théoden’s network of tunnels.

They made it back to their new headquarters – it would take a while before Thorin could simply refer to it as their headquarters, without having to specify – and he pretended not to see as Dwalin took Ori to one side to present him with the quills and paper he’d salvaged. He ignored the strange ache in his chest when he saw Ori’s smile light up his face as he looked at Dwalin, and the way Dwalin caught one of Ori’s hands in his own and curled their fingers together tightly. He turned away.

“Thorin.”

He turned at the sound of his name and found himself face to face with Bilbo. He ignored the swooping in his stomach (he was getting really rather good at ignoring things like that now). Since their falling-out they’d reverted back to their original game of polite courtesy, though Thorin couldn’t stop the yearning he felt whenever he saw him.

“Bilbo.”

“You and Dwalin went back to the old tunnels?” he nodded towards the sack of weapons and robes the other Sons were digging through. He looked troubled.

“Yes,” Thorin nodded. “But we were careful. No-one saw us and we made sure to seal up the way again. No-one will be getting in there any time soon.”

Bilbo bit his lip, still looking worried, and Thorin put a hand on his shoulder – it only rested there for a moment, but it was enough to make Bilbo meet his eyes. “I know. I just worry.” Thorin suppressed a smile. “Is that Balin’s ledger? I’ll take it to him if you want. I was just about to go and see him.”

“You’re alright,” Thorin said. Bilbo shrugged, and when Thorin moved to make his way to Balin’s office – Théoden had proved true to his word and had sorted out the rooms, making them more than habitable, in fact _comfortable_ – Bilbo fell into step beside him. He didn’t say anything, but Thorin was glad that despite _that_ incident, things seemed to have improved between them again. He wished he could stop being so awkward about it – evidently Bilbo didn’t remember it, and was simply trying to work with him without arguing, and all Thorin could think about was how his body had felt under his hands and–

He _really_ needed to stop.

He was grateful when they reached Balin’s study and entered, giving Thorin something to focus on other than Bilbo’s warmth beside him.

“Here’s the ledger,” he said to Balin, planting it on the desk in front of Balin. “They hadn’t managed to get past the defences, so you don’t need to worry on that score.”

“Excellent,” Balin said, opening the book. In fact it was more than just a ledger – it was a record of everything that happened within their ranks and without. Their dealings with the Thieves, with Bilbo, the incident with Bolg – everything was in that book. “So do we have a plan?” he asked, looking at them both curiously.

“Yes,” Bilbo replied, glancing at Thorin. “We’re going to go and hear what Nori’s Thieves have managed to find out for us, and then we’re going to take Dori and Dwalin and pay some deserving nobles a visit. That’s about right, isn’t it, Thorin?” Bilbo tuned to grin at Thorin, who shook himself.

“Er,” he said. “Yes.” He cursed himself mentally.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about actually, Balin,” Bilbo said, leaning against the stone wall. It may be Balin’s study and it may be comfortable, but it lacked the comforting presence of the bookshelves that had lined the walls in Balin’s old study. “I want to ask you whether you feel it might be beneficial for us to reveal ourselves, should it become...prudent to do so?”

Balin sighed. “I don’t know anymore. Smaug already knows we killed Bolg, or at least he suspects us. Would revealing us make him angry and careless, or would it make it easier for him to find us? I wish I knew the answer.”

“We don’t _know_ he knows,” Bilbo said, sounding a little off. Thorin looked at him. “About Bolg, I mean.”

“He destroyed Bofur’s shop, threatened Óin’s healers,” Balin said flatly. “He’s pretty certain.”

Bilbo sighed. “I suppose we do what we feel is best, then?”

Balin nodded. Thorin didn’t like seeing Balin so uncertain – Thorin may be the Master Assassin but it was Balin who was the brains behind him, the strategic and wise one. Seeing him so unsure made Thorin feel unbalanced, off-kilter.

“We should go and see Nori, Thorin,” Bilbo pointed out. Thorin nodded in agreement and made to move.

“I’ll walk you out,” Balin said, standing too. “I’ve been sitting still too long and my old bones are going.”

“Don’t say that,” Thorin said, only half joking as Balin grinned at him. “You’re as spritely as you ever were, Balin.”

“You try telling my back that,” Balin laughed. “Don’t you worry, I’ll still be good in a fight. It’s sitting all day does my back in.”

“At least we’re not having to fight,” Thorin said softly as they walked to the door, Bilbo following behind them.

“Aye, laddie,” Balin agreed. “But I’ve no doubt there’ll be a time very soon when we’ll be fighting, whether we want to or no. It’s only luck so far has kept us from being found.”

“Luck, and a little skill,” Thorin said pointedly. “And allies like Bilbo,” he added, turning to give Bilbo a smile. Bilbo started at the sound of his name, brushing down his robes; he looked as if he’d been caught doing something wrong.

“What?” he asked, a little breathlessly.

“Are you alright?” Thorin asked in concern. Bilbo waved his words away.

“Yes, yes, sorry. I just remembered I need to get more poisons later, that’s all.” he brushed past Thorin to overtake them. Only a little bemused, Thorin bade Balin goodbye and made to follow Bilbo. He hoped Nori would have some good news for them.

 

*

 

“Hello there, beautiful.”

Thorin suppressed a groan as Tauriel slipped into the seat across from him. Her gaze slid to Bilbo and her smile grew wider.

“It’s been a long time, Master Bilbo,” she grinned. “How lovely to see you again.” Bilbo ducked his head and Thorin laughed, it turning into a choke when both Bilbo and Tauriel turned to glare at him.

Tauriel flicked her hair in protest. “You’re just jealous.”

Rather than stooping to argue his innocence, he ignored her comment. “Where’s Nori?”

“He left me in charge,” Tauriel said smugly, leaning back in her seat. “So do you want to know what we found or not?”

“Yes,” both Bilbo and Thorin said at the same time; they glanced at each other and then away again. “Please,” Bilbo added politely.

“Well,” Tauriel began. “You were right.  Ghash is paid by Smaug. Gildor couldn’t work out exactly what for but he was there when a servant in Smaug’s livery was admitted to the house. He heard him hand over the money.”

“We need to find out exactly what he’s doing that makes him useful to Smaug,” Thorin said, mostly to himself. He glanced at Bilbo, who nodded.

“It was the same for the others. Dushun, Uruk, Rukhun…. It was always a liveried servant coming to deliver money.”

Well, at least they had somewhere to start now.

“Did your people overhear anything else?” Bilbo asked. “Any of the Templars’ plans?”

“They did,” Tauriel nodded. “I think Elrond Peredhel’s in trouble. Girion managed to intercept some messages and his name came up. They were searching his house and Smaug was paying someone to put spies in his household.”

“Elrond?” Thorin asked. “But why? Elrond’s been on Smaug’s council for years now.

Tauriel shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s what Girion found.”

Thorin made a noise. “Was that everything?”

“Not quite.” Tauriel leaned forward in her seat, face serious. “Here’s something you might find interesting… Rukhun had a meeting with Azog.”

“ _Azog?_ ” Thorin repeated, making sure he’d heard correctly.

Tauriel nodded. “Just the two of them. They were talking for hours, apparently, and Elenwë heard part of their conversation when she served them wine. Azog was talking about bringing people in from Angmar – about how he could hide them in his underground hideout until the time was right.” Tauriel bit her lip. “But this is where it gets _really_ interesting. ‘ _He won’t know until it’s too late’,_ he said.”

“He?” Thorin demanded. “Who won’t know?”

Tauriel shrugged. “Apparently he didn’t say a name. But Rukhun said something – he said _‘he always knows’._ Called Azog a fool for even thinking he could pull it off, but that he’d help him try.”

“ _He always knows_ …” Bilbo muttered beside Thorin, frowning at the table. He looked up at the others. “You don’t think he means _Smaug,_ do you?”

“Could be,” Thorin said slowly. “Whatever he’s doing, he needs it to be kept a secret… It _would_ be foolish to try and keep anything a secret from Smaug – but why would he? He’s Smaug’s most trusted henchman!” Thorin knew well enough what the Defiler was like – as persistent as a bulldog and ugly as one too, he’d been the one to inflict most of the harm on Thorin’s family. Thorin could still remember the moment he’d been unable to do anything but watch as Azog had thrust his sword into Frerin’s gut, how he’d been frozen as his brother had coughed up blood before crumpling to the ground–

“Whatever he’s planning, he damn well deserves for it to go wrong,” Thorin snarled, his fists clenching on the table.

One of Bilbo’s hands hovered just above his fist before flitting away to rest beside it on the table. Thorin just managed to stop himself from grabbing onto it and holding it.

“We need to know,” Bilbo said softly. “Perhaps we should pay this Rukhun a visit too. Maybe even Azog himself…”

“No,” Thorin and Tauriel said fiercely and Bilbo blinked at them in shock.

“It’s far too dangerous!” Tauriel hissed, her green eyes blazing.

“He’d hand you over to Smaug in a heartbeat,” Thorin said vehemently. “And that’s after he’d have you tortured and maimed and Mahal knows what else.

“Alright,” Bilbo said mildly, looking a little bemused. “It was just an idea.”

Thorin shook his head, trying to ignore how much the thought of Azog getting his hands on Bilbo scared him.

“We visit Rukhun,” Thorin said. “Along with the others. Azog is too big a risk.”

“We should act fast then,” Bilbo put in. “Tauriel, get your Thieves out of there, in case things go wrong. I won’t have anything happen to them if I can help it. Thorin, we… we should start tomorrow.”

Thorin nodded in agreement and Tauriel stood. “I’ll do as you say, Master Bilbo. And I’ll let Nori know what’s happening.”

“You do that,” Thorin said as he too stood, Bilbo following suit, and the three of them walked to the door of the tavern.

“Just be careful, please,” Tauriel said to them, her eyes crinkling and mouth tight with worry. “If Azog’s planning something, it can’t be good. Please be careful.”

Thorin gave another nod. “Don’t you worry, Tauriel. You just keep an eye on Dís.” While Dís had been splitting her time between the Sapphire and the Thieves, it was comforting to know that Tauriel would make sure she was safe. Not that Thorin didn’t trust Dís – of course he did, she’d been trained as a Son just as he had – but she was still his baby sister. It didn’t hurt to have an extra pair of eyes looking out for her, no matter how much she might rail against him if she knew.

He and Bilbo made their way back to the hideout in Rohan and Bilbo was quiet the entire way, something which gave Thorin pause; considering everything that had happened between them Bilbo had been quieter but he usually at least made an effort to make small talk – something which had annoyed Thorin no end at first – but he wasn’t even trying to today. Thorin stopped in the darkness of the tunnel.

“Bilbo.”

He started, as if his thoughts had been elsewhere, and he stopped walking when he noticed Thorin wasn’t moving.

“Yes?”

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Bilbo’s brows creased into a frown. “You shouldn’t worry about me.”

“We’re allies,” Thorin reminded him. “And...I’d like to think we’re friends.”

Bilbo’s expression softened but still looked pained. “Of course we are, Thorin,” he said. “But even so.... Come on,” he said abruptly, pushing forwards. “Let’s get back and speak to the others.”

Thorin followed, but he couldn’t ignore the little knot of worry settling in his stomach.

They spent the evening with Dwalin and Dori, going over the plans. The next night, they’d break into Ghash’s and Rukhun’s mansions and...speak with them. It was a risk – if they decided to say anything to Smaug, the man would know immediately it was the Sons – but thanks to the Thieves and Dís’ efforts, they had enough material to blackmail the men into silence. Perhaps only for a while, until the men felt safe enough again, but hopefully that would be enough time.

Dori was nervous about it, but Thorin knew his strength would be an advantage should anything happen.

When evening came the next day, they slipped out of the hideout in Rohan and made their way underground to the edge of the district and waiting until the sun had fully set before slipping into the Citadel. Once again, Bilbo’s street urchins were there to keep the guards busy should any come poking around while they were there.  

Rukhun’s mansion was closest to the edge of the Citadel so they made their way there first. It always amazed Thorin how quiet the Citadel was, the streets mostly empty, compared to the city on the other side of the wall, the streets always humming with life even in the small hours of the morning. Bilbo took out the two guards at the front of the house with his darts; it would only send them to sleep but they’d wake with no idea what had happened – and should Rukhun try and put about that four armed men had broken into his house, it would be a lot harder to believe than if two of his guards were found dead at the scene.

They scaled the walls and clambered in through the window of what was Rukhun’s office – at least, there was a desk in the room with paper and quills, but no books lined the walls and it was a sparse and unwelcoming room.

Bilbo went first, slipping through the house until he’d taken out any servants and had located Rukhun’s chamber; Thorin, Dori and Dwalin followed him silently up the stairs. Thanks to the Thieves, they knew Rukhun’s nightly routine – every evening before bed, he’d sit at his desk and count the money he kept secreted away.

They all knew the plan; Bilbo slipped inside his chamber.

The man didn’t even notice the door opening, and by the time he noticed Bilbo’s presence it was too late – the Child already had his knife to his neck and a dart ready in his other hand, ready to press into the man’s armpit.

“Don’t make a sound,” Bilbo said softly. “I’ve already taken out most of your household, and I won’t hesitate to kill any more you send running.” He turned his head to the door, his eyes never leaving Rukhun’s face – the Templar’s eyes were bulging in anger and he looked furious, but he did as Bilbo said and kept silent. “Come in,” Bilbo hissed to the others and the three of them entered, shutting the door softly behind them.

Dori hurried over and checked Rukhun and his desk for any weapons while Dwalin took over from Bilbo and held the man in place. The man looked at Dwalin with equal measures of hatred and fear and Dwalin gave him a wolfish grin.

“Rukhun,” Bilbo said, bringing the man’s attention to him. “You have some information we want, and we have some that you definitely _don’t_ want us to have. Tell us about your plans for Elrond Peredhel.”

Rukhun spat at Bilbo’s feet. “Why should I tell you a thing?” he hissed, but anything else he was going to say was cut off by Dwalin pressing his blade tight to the man’s throat.

“You answer his question, scum,” he growled.

Rukhun looked furious but did as he was told. “Smaug wants ‘im dead. There’s an imposter in Elrond’s ranks. He’ll be dead before he can finish his speech.”

Thorin exchanged a look with Bilbo.

“You know this for certain?” he asked.

“Smaug told me himself,” the man sneered.

Thorin gave a snort. “And what do you know of Azog?”

If Thorin hadn’t been looking for it he would have missed the way the man gave a swallow and his eyes widened a fraction. “What about him?”

“You know what he’s plotting. You’re going to help him.”

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” Rukhun said nastily. “The Commander is hardly going to be plotting anything.”

Thorin let his blade flick out of its hidden sheath and looked at it for a moment, letting the light glint off it. He looked back at Rukhun.

“You have two children with a woman in Ered Luin,” Thorin said slowly. “She worked at the Pink Sapphire, one you used to frequent whenever your own wife couldn’t satisfy you. You kept her as your own private whore, and then she had the cheek to get pregnant. You stopped visiting, leaving her penniless with your babes to care for.” Thorin let the blade rest against the man’s cheek, just to scare him, and noted with satisfaction the way the man’s eyes widened. “That wasn’t very nice of you. And if the rest of the Citadel were to find out...well.” Thorin’s eyes flickered to the pile of money bags that were scattered on the desk. “Perhaps you’ll be needing those sooner than you think.”

Rukhun let out a growl. “I don’t know what Azog is planning,” he said between gritted teeth. “All I know is he wants to kill Smaug and he’s planning on bringing soldiers in to do it. He wants justice for his boy and Smaug isn’t giving it to ‘im, so he’ll take justice where he can get it.”

“And you will help him get that justice?”

Rukhun let out a gurgle of laughter. “No. I’ll be telling Smaug as soon as I know enough for him to catch Azog in the act.”

“Why would you do that?” Bilbo asked, stepping forward. “Why would you sell out your friend?”

“Friend?” Rukhun spat. “He’s no friend of mine. He’s a selfish bastard who cares for nothing except his own gain and his own grudges.”

At Thorin’s nod, Dwalin pressed his blade tighter against Rukhun’s throat. “You don’t tell anyone about Azog’s plans,” he said. “If you do, it’s your own ruin you bring about. Do you understand?” Rukhun made a face but spat out a yes, and Thorin stepped back, satisfied. “Dori?”

Dori stepped forward and cuffed Rukhun around the head, knocking him out cold.

“Good job,” Dwalin said; Dori looked mildly annoyed before accepting the compliment.

“Come on,” Thorin said, and they left Rukhun where he sat slumped at his desk, coins rolling off the desk and onto the floor. “Let’s get out of here.”

Ghash was almost easy – Bilbo took out what of the household remained awake before they all entered Ghash’s chamber, where the man was sleeping, a naked whore beside him. He didn’t even wake as Dori and Dwalin tied him up, though the whore did and started crying until Thorin handed her her clothes and sent her on her way, giving her Ghash’s money pouch as an extra incentive to keep quiet.

Ghash was a coward, telling them everything.

“They’re going to poison the wine,” he said, breathing heavily as Dwalin held his blade to his throat.

“The wine?” Thorin repeated.

“Yes, yes, during the ceremony. When he drinks, it’ll be poisoned. That’s all I know, please let me go!”

Thorin curled his lip as the man continued to snivel but they let him go, threatening him with revealing his debts – at which point the man did start to cry in earnest and they left him there, escaping out through the man’s window and through the garden.

He was exhausted as they made the trek back through the tunnels, but purpose buoyed Thorin up. They knew Smaug’s next move, and they could find a way to abort it. Elrond had been on the White Council before Smaug’s coup, and evidently Smaug had got tired of keeping him around – in getting rid of Elrond, Smaug would be free to do as he pleased; all the while he was there, Smaug had appearances to keep up, even if Elrond held no real power over him.

The feast of Ilúvatar was in just over a week. They had eight days to find out what they could in order to formulate a plan to save Elrond and put a spanner in Smaug’s schemes. If there was one thing that could give Thorin a grim satisfaction, it was ruining Smaug’s plans – just as he’d ruined Thorin’s life so many years before.

 

***

 

The feast of Ilúvatar was one of the festivals celebrated throughout the city, though the festivities were mostly concentrated in Rivendell, Gondor and the Greenwood. Rivendell bordered the Citadel and was home to many rich and affluent families – those who weren’t Templars. The streets there were wide and lined with trees, the houses were large and spacious, but its inhabitants were largely ignored by Smaug, so long as they caused no trouble and their wealth never threatened his own.

Elrond lived in Rivendell. Bilbo never had worked out how he’d managed to escape the coup mostly unscathed – his family were unharmed and besides handing over most of his properties and riches, it didn’t seem to have affected Elrond too badly. Bilbo suspected it was partly due to the disappearance of the others – Smaug was suspicious, and keeping Elrond in his court meant he’d be aware if any of them ever tried to contact him. Bilbo had no doubt that most of those working in Elrond’s household had been put there by Smaug as spies.    

Perhaps the most important thing was the fact that every year at the Feast, Elrond gave a speech. Rivendell had been under his jurisdiction back when he’d been on the Council and the tradition had continued. And a speech in front of thousands of spectators was a very convenient opportunity for an assassination.

Bilbo’s blood ran cold when he thought about it. The possible repercussions of Elrond’s death… they had to find a way to protect him.

Throughout the week Bilbo and Thorin found out as much as they could: where the speech was going to be, who else would be there, how many guards, how was Elrond arriving there; the Thieves were tireless and thanks to their efforts they knew the answer to most of those questions. The only thing they didn’t know for sure was how Smaug planned to have Elrond killed.

Rukhun had said one thing, Ghash another – what if it was neither? What if it was both? Bilbo had no idea which to trust – doubted the wisdom of trusting either of them at all – and not knowing how the assassination was going to be attempted left him at a loss as to how to try and prevent it. He became restless and anxious; spent his days pacing the yellow stone tunnels; he felt useless. Surprisingly enough, Thorin took it in his stride and was calm about it, which just made Bilbo feel even worse.

“We just have to cover all bases,” Thorin told him as they sat over a map of Rivendell, the torch on the wall flickering in the draft that swept through the tunnel. They’d need to sort out gas lamps for the rooms; the torches were so smoky and inferior as light sources. Thorin’s hand hovered over the map, pointing. “We know Elrond will give his speech in front of the Temple of Eru, and that after the speech he’ll enter the Temple for the service. We know that he’s travelling in his private coach with his family from his home on Imladris street.”

Bilbo nodded, willing himself to let Thorin’s words soothe him. “And he’ll have his own guards with him all the time,” he said, half to himself. “It’s once he’s stepped out of his carriage that worries me.”

“We’ll have one of Nori’s Thieves replace the wine before the ceremony, just in case Ghash was telling the truth. And we’ve spoken to Elrond’s butler; all his guards have been there over a year and are loyal to a fault. So Rukhun can’t be right.”

“I know,” Bilbo sighed. “I just can’t help but worry. What if after all of this, we fail? What if he dies, just because we couldn’t work out what Smaug was planning?” Bilbo looked at Thorin plaintively, needing reassurance.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said, the sound of his voice anchoring Bilbo to the present. Perhaps it was telling that the Son was able to reassure him so, but Bilbo didn’t think on it. “We’ll have Thieves in the crowd in case the attack comes from there, and more on the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. We _will_ stop it.”

“I wish I could be as certain as you,” Bilbo said morosely. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Thorin said simply, and Bilbo looked up at him, only now aware of how alone they were and how quiet the room was. “You’ve had more faith in us than I have on many occasions before now.” Thorin’s voice was soft as he looked at Bilbo and it made the hairs on Bilbo’s arm stand on end.

“If we manage this, Smaug will be angry,” Bilbo said, looking away down at the map.

“He will,” Thorin replied.

“He’s going to know it’s you. That the Sons are behind it. He’s going to come after you even harder.” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

He started when suddenly Thorin’s hands had grasped his and he was leaning forward in his chair, looking at Bilbo with such earnestness that Bilbo felt his mouth go dry. “But he won’t catch us. He won’t find us until it’s too late and he’s dead.”

“How can you be so sure?” Bilbo shook his head.

“Because we’ve got you.” He spoke with a quiet sort of certainty and Bilbo couldn’t bear it.

He pulled his hands from Thorin’s grasp abruptly, his heart hammering and he fled the room, hoping Thorin wouldn’t come after him. He shouldn’t be alone with him, he shouldn’t let Thorin trust in him so blindly–

But two months ago, that’s all he’d wanted – Thorin’s trust. And now the fact the Son trusted him as one of his own made him feel sick to his stomach, almost as if a part of him _wanted_ Thorin to realise what was going on – to realise that Bilbo’s hand had been forced, that he had no choice in the matter–

But of course he didn’t realise, and he wouldn’t ever unless Bilbo told him. Bilbo was able to deceive the most powerful man in Arda – what hope did Thorin have of seeing through him?

When the day of the Feast arrived, Bilbo felt sick. He hadn’t slept well and was awake long before the others. The festivities were due to start at midday, but if Nori had followed their instructions there would be Thieves waiting in place on the nearby rooftops from sun-up, watching and observing the area, with more to arrive once the crowd started to form in front of the Temple.

Bilbo had a strange sense of foreboding as he and Thorin made their way to Rivendell, though as a lot of it was over-ground he was able to keep his mind busy on being invisible rather than why he was so worried. The streets were already busier than normal, people dressed in their best clothes and some already at the liquor.

Bilbo had checked and triple-checked his weapons before leaving – he had his crossbow, his throwing knives, his darts, his flick knife, his poisons. He even had the short sword Thorin had insisted he carry, despite the fact Bilbo hadn’t improved much at all with it since his first abysmal session. But he could wield it well enough as a last resort, enough to get away, just as Thorin had said.

It was nearing midday when he and Thorin joined the masses congregating before the Temple. When Bilbo glanced up, he could spot a couple of the Thieves on the rooftops above and it settled his nerves somewhat.

“He’ll be here soon,” Thorin was saying and Bilbo forced himself to listen. “I’ll stay here near the stage, and you should head to the side in case you need to use your darts.”

Bilbo nodded and slipped through the crowd until he was to the side of the makeshift stage. He could just see Thorin in his blue cloak, hidden just behind the people at the front but close enough to break through and fight, should it come to it.

They waited, hiding in plain sight, as the sun drew higher and higher and the crowd became expectant, awaiting Elrond’s arrival. Bilbo could hardly breathe.

And then they heard the cheering.

It was far off but gradually grew closer, and Bilbo knew it was Elrond arriving in his carriage. The cheers grew in volume and then all of a sudden the carriage, pulled by two horses with white manes, gems gilding the reins, pulled into the large square. Bilbo could see Elrond inside, his sons and daughter peering out of the windows; as the carriage slowed all of Bilbo’s nervousness disappeared. He was prepared, focused; he was an Assassin and he was ready.

The carriage drew to a stop and Bilbo tensed. Two guards in Elrond’s livery of autumnal reds and oranges leapt down from the back of the carriage and opened the door; Elrond stepped out, his movements fluid and graceful, and mounted the steps to the stage. Templar guards stood ready and waiting to the sides of the platform. Bilbo was thrumming with adrenaline, his muscles tensed and ready to spring.

“Welcome, people of Rivendell,” Elrond started to speak and the crowd immediately fell quiet. “Today we celebrate the great Ilúvatar, our maker and creator.”

Elrond carried on speaking and Bilbo could almost believe that nothing was going to happen, that Ghash and Rukhun had been wrong… but then it was time for the ceremony in the temple and Elrond turned and began to head for the temple, and that was when it all went downhill.

Bilbo saw a flash rush through the crowd and run at Elrond as he was turning away; the next thing he knew Thorin’s sword was whirling and a man was lying on the floor, a richly jewelled dagger falling from his now-limp hand.

Bilbo had only a moment to take that in before Thorin let out a grunt of pain, a crossbow shaft embedded in his shoulder.

“No,” Bilbo whispered, stunned just for a moment before leaping into action. The Templars were drawing their swords as they realised what was happening, and then all hell broke loose as they seemed to turn on each other and the crowd began to flee in panic.

He ran towards Elrond, the man unaware of what was happening behind him. He wanted to look for Thorin, check he was still standing, but he had to get Elrond to safety first.

“Get the children away!” he shouted to Elrond’s driver, who was sitting in shock; when he registered Bilbo’s words he nodded and spoke to the horses. Bilbo saw the little girl peering with wide eyes out of the window as the carriage drew away, but he was focused on Elrond.

“Please excuse this, my lord,” Bilbo said apologetically as he grabbed hold of Elrond and manhandled him towards the temple.

“What in Eru’s name is going on?” the man asked, bewildered. “Why are they fighting?”

Bilbo ignored his question until they were inside and had slammed the door shut behind them. As he’d shut the door he’d seen a flash of blue and was relieved to see that Thorin wasn’t down yet. Once he’d got Elrond to a safe place he’d go back for him, but at least the Thieves out there would have Thorin’s back–

“Will you please explain what’s going on?” Elrond asked now, with the voice of one used to getting the answers he wanted but very confused.

“There was an attempt on your life just now,” Bilbo explained as he led the way through the temple to where he knew there was another exit, up in the gallery, that would lead to the belfry. “Follow me, please. I’m going to get you somewhere safe and my friend is out there currently facing off a horde of Templar guards.”

“How do I know you’re not the one who’s been sent to kill me, under the pretence of rescuing me?” Elrond asked suspiciously, not moving from the door. Bilbo did his best to dampen his exasperation.

“My name is Bilbo Baggins and I’m a Child of Yavanna. I’m trying to rescue you, not kill you, so if you please – _shit,”_ he finished in a hiss. Shadowy figures were appearing in the alcoves. “Elrond, if you want to see your children again, get here please,” he said carefully. Elrond noticed the change in his voice and did as he was told, dashing forwards to Bilbo’s side.

“Why are you doing this?” Elrond asked the figures, voice shaky, as they left the shadows. They wore Templar livery and helmets covered their faces. “What do you want me for?”

The figures said nothing, only advanced menacingly and drew their swords. There were six of them; the light of the hundreds of candles lit for the ceremony glinted off the dull metal.

Bilbo quickly loaded his crossbow and shot two rounds, felling the first two with clean shots to the chests. The others didn’t seem to notice or care; simply stepped over the fallen bodies and continued advancing.

“There are more behind us,” Elrond said in a whisper as Bilbo reloaded his bow. Bilbo said nothing, only shot another round and watched as two more fell to the ground with heavy thuds, their helmets clashing noisily against the marble floor. Bilbo glanced around and saw four more approaching from behind them. The door to the staircase up to the gallery was to their left; if he could hold off the attackers long enough…

“When I say run,” Bilbo said softly, loading his crossbow again and beginning to back away slowly towards the door, “you run to that door there and you don’t stop until you reach the top. Do you understand?” The other man nodded, his lips white. Bilbo shot another two of the Templars and that seemed to be the final straw; with a sudden roar the final four raised their swords and began to run at them.

“ _Run,”_ Bilbo hissed and Elrond did so, his robes flowing behind him as he pelted towards the door and Bilbo drew his own sword, thanking Thorin with every fibre of his being for insisting he learn to use it. He just had to hold them off a little while…

He used his small stature to his advantage, dodging and weaving between the four Templars and getting in quick jabs and slices before they even registered that he’d moved. It wasn’t strategic and it wasn’t particularly effective – they hardly faltered as the blade hit them, Bilbo not able to reach the gaps in their armour quickly enough – but he didn’t need to be; so long as they were focused on him and not where Elrond had gone. Bilbo backed towards a pillar, exaggerating his swings and he saw the gleam of victory in the closest guard’s eye as he thought Bilbo was tiring.

“Go after the mark,” he snarled to the three others. “I’ll deal with this little rat.” Bilbo felt a flicker of indignation at that. The guard lifted his sword up high and brought it down in a swift downwards strike; Bilbo raised his own sword to block it and he didn’t need to pretend – the cry of pain as the shock of it jarred him was perfectly genuine, pain shooting through his arm and his sword clattering to the ground. He stood with his back to the pillar, breathing heavily, and the Templar gave him a cruel smile as he raised his sword again. The other three were breaking down the door – evidently Elrond had thought to bolt it behind him in his flight – and were paying no attention to their leader.

“You don’t want to do that,” Bilbo said, trying to calm his breathing and closing his hand around the hilt of his dagger, hidden beneath generous folds of his cloak. The Templar stopped short.

“And why’s that?” he sneered.

Bilbo didn’t answer; in response he sunk his dagger into the Templars body with his uninjured arm, in the weak point at the armpit where the chest plate met the shoulder; and the Templar doubled over with a gasp and fell to the ground, his blood pouring out of him, warm and sticky on Bilbo’s hand. That’d teach him to call Bilbo Baggins a _rat_ , he sniffed scornfully as he gingerly kicked the prone body away.

The other guards had noticed by now and they let out an angry roar and ran at Bilbo.

Hoping his arm wouldn’t give out on him, he scaled the pillar as quickly as he could until he reached the gallery, where he fired off a round of crossbow bolts and left two with bolts in their knees and one dead, blood pulsing out of his neck where the bolt had embedded itself.

He didn’t stop to check what they would do; he ran towards the door that would lead up to the bell tower, where Elrond should be waiting.

He pulled open the door to the spiral staircase and his heart stopped when he saw a spray of blood on the stone wall, crimson drops of it leading upwards. “No,” he said, throat constricting. “No, no no _no–”_

He ran up the stairs, following the trail of blood and fearing the worst.

When he reached the light of the bell tower he stopped in surprise. Elrond was kneeling beside a prone body, his pristine white robes covered in scarlet that was drying to a rusty brown and his hand still clasped around a dagger embedded in the neck of the prone man. Bilbo rushed towards him and helped him to his feet; Elrond kept his hands out in front of him, looking at them aghast.

“Are you hurt?” Bilbo asked urgently. Elrond shook his head.

“Just a scratch on my arm. I – I–”

“It’s alright,” Bilbo said soothingly. “We’ll get you home and safe.”

“My children – Arwen mustn’t see _this,_ ” Elrond said a little shakily, waving his blood-covered hands. Bilbo’s own hand was caked in blood too, drying and making it difficult to flex it properly. He needed to wash it as soon as possible, but for now he had other things to worry about.

He ran to the edge of the bell tower and peered out over the edge, looking down at the carnage below him: several Templars lay dead and with a lurch Bilbo recognised the brown outfit of one of the Thieves lying in a pool of blood, but there was no sign of Thorin. He tried to ignore the clenching of his gut – he must have got away. Bilbo couldn’t bear to even think of the alternative – that he’d been taken and was already on his way to Smaug, or that he was lying broken and bloodied and dead somewhere–

He took a breath to steady himself and stepped backwards; as he did his foot knocked something. He glanced down and saw a crossbow, a pile of bolts beside it. Evidently this was who had shot Thorin right at the beginning of this mess, when he aborted the first assassination attempt. He kicked the bow angrily, hatred burning in his belly.

“Come on,” he forced his voice to be gentle. Elrond was looking a little sick, avoiding looking at his hands or the body in front of them. “Let’s get you home.”

“They tried to kill me,” Elrond said as he followed Bilbo to the other side of the bell tower. “Why would they do that?”

Bilbo climbed out through the window, clambering onto the tiles below, and held out a hand for Elrond to catch if he needed it. The man seemed in shock still, not realising his surroundings and the fact he was about to climb onto the roof of the Temple of Eru.

“Smaug,” Bilbo said simply as they hurried across the roof. “We can’t know his exact reasons, but evidently he wants you dead.”

Elrond didn’t reply, and Bilbo didn’t blame him. Instead he focused on getting Elrond to make the foot or so jump down from the roof of the Temple to the nearest building. The rooftops would be their best bet to get from there to Elrond’s home on Imladris Street: they’d see any would-be attackers from far away up here and avoid getting caught up in the crush and panic that was reigning in the streets below. The man was surprisingly calm, considering he’d just survived an attack on his life.

Imladris Street wasn’t far and they soon reached it, the guards at the gate to the large town house surprised but glad to see their master safe. They pulled him inside and Bilbo followed as Elrond’s physician was sent for. In the quiet of Elrond’s office he spoke up.

“You’re going to have to leave Arda.”

“I know.” Elrond sighed and put his head in his hands. “I was thinking about it all the way here. I can’t stay if Smaug has decided he wants me gone.”

“Do you have somewhere you can go where you’ll be safe?” Bilbo asked. “Somewhere he won’t find you?”

“We have kin in Beleriand. We will go to them, and hope Smaug’s reach does not yet stretch that far.” The physician knocked then and started tending to Elrond’s wound – his ‘scratch’ was in fact a nasty gash along his arm – and Bilbo was able to wash his hand of the Templar’s blood. His robes were a different story, but at least his hand was no longer red and crusty.

“You must leave tonight,” he said as the physician worked. “I will be back at nightfall with some of the Children who’ll help you out of the city. But now I need to go and find someone.” His heart twisted as he thought of Thorin.

Elrond nodded. “Thank you, Master Baggins. I will not forget the service you have done me today.”

Bilbo gave a wry smile and turned to leave, slipping out largely unnoticed in the chaos that was servants beginning to pack up the house. He thought about where Thorin was likely to have gone – surely he’d have gone with the Thieves, if he hadn’t been killed or taken? His body hadn’t been among those left in the square in the aftermath so he wasn’t dead, and Bilbo refused to believe he’d let himself be taken.

The journey out of Rivendell was made difficult by the troops of guards now marching the streets, scaring off most of the revellers – not that most were still feeling like celebrating, after the horror of what they’d witnessed earlier. More than once Bilbo had to duck and hide and on one occasion was nearly found – only thanks to a quick shot with his dart did he remain undetected.

Why had the Templars turned on each other? Did that mean they were not all there to kill Elrond – that they really were there to protect him, and the assassins had infiltrated the group? Probably a ploy by Smaug – this way he could claim innocence in it all, never mind all the lives that had also been claimed during the mess.

Finally Bilbo could use the underground tunnels and reached Erebor quickly, hurrying to Bombur’s inn.

Nori was in the back room, his face grim as he listened to a Thief whose arm was heavily bandaged. Tauriel sat beside him and Bilbo noted absently how her hands were clasping his on the table.

“Bilbo.” Nori noticed him as Bilbo entered and stood up. Tauriel looked up at him too, her face pale. “You’re safe. Is Thorin with you?”

Bilbo’s heart stopped. “He’s not with you?”

“No,” Nori shook his head. “The last my Thieves saw of him was after they’d killed most of the guards, but Thorin was still struggling with one of them. Then someone deployed a smoke bomb and when the air cleared they’d gone.”

Bilbo forced himself to stay calm. “If he’s not here… Where would he be?” Bilbo felt very small then. Thorin could be anywhere. “What if the Templar took him?”

“It’s a possibility,” Nori conceded, a frown furrowing his face and he looked troubled. “One we can’t discard. But Thorin clearly had the upper hand before that smoke bomb went off – I’m sure he managed to beat him. Or at least have the sense to get away if he was going to lose.”

“You evidently don’t know Thorin,” Bilbo tried to laugh but it sounded brittle. Thorin had a death wish, it seemed, and the thought of him running from a fight – even one he was losing – seemed highly improbable to Bilbo. “I’m going to find him.”

“I’ll help,” Nori said, hands reaching to rest on his daggers. “If we split up we’ll find him faster.”

“Thank you,” he said. He hesitated a moment before speaking again. “I know we’ve asked a lot from your men today, but there’s one more thing I need you to do.” Nori raised one elegant eyebrow. “I need someone to send a message to the Shire.”

“To the Shire?”

“Yes. Here –” Bilbo pulled his handkerchief from his robes – “if your messenger takes this, they will not be harmed. My people will know they were sent by me.”

Nori took the proffered handkerchief, the letters BB stitched in the corner alongside an acorn.

“And what message would you have us pass on?”

“I need half a dozen Children to be at Elrond Peredhel’s house by nightfall. Tell them to bring supplies – enough for a week. I’ll meet them there.”

“I’ll sort it,” Tauriel piped up. “You go and find Thorin, Nori.” She touched his arm, her eyes worried; Nori covered her hand with his and squeezed it. Bilbo felt his throat close up at the obvious affection in the gesture and his stomach squeezed tight with worry for Thorin.

Nori turned to him. “We’ll get your message to them, Bilbo. And if either of us finds Thorin, we send word back here.”

With a final nod Bilbo turned and left, heart in his mouth. He would assume Thorin had been hurt – badly – but had managed to get away, in which case he should start his search in Rivendell and work his way out from there. It was risky, as it was still only early afternoon and the guards were out in force, but it seemed the most sensible solution.

He began his search at the Temple of Eru, checking the roof and every nook and cranny of the building’s exterior. He searched the little side streets and alleys, climbed over every garden wall to make sure Thorin hadn’t taken refuge in the shrubbery there. But he wasn’t there, and worry was slowly growing into a knot, sitting heavily in Bilbo’s stomach.

Maybe Thorin had got back to headquarters just fine. But he surely would have sent word if that was the case? No, Bilbo would keep looking – perhaps start looking in Gondor – and then he saw it: a small grille set into the wall at ground level, a sluice to channel rainwater away.

If he was Thorin, where would he go? If he’d been hurt and needed somewhere to lie low until it was safer to cross the city?

 _Underground_. Thorin had spent years of his life living in underground hideouts – of course he would seek the safety of being below ground if he needed to hide. At the very least, it was worth a try.

Bilbo backtracked to where he knew there was an entrance to the storm sewers. They’d be empty this time of year, in the height of summer, but in a couple of months when autumn came they’d be full more often than not. The entrance was on the riverbank of the River Running, reached by a set of steps down to the muddy bank. There were other ways of reaching the storm sewers, but this way was the best place to start.

He entered the tunnel, wishing he had something to light the way. There was very little natural light that reached the tunnels, only a small patch of white daylight whenever Bilbo passed a grille. At least it was mostly dry underfoot; only occasionally did he manage to splash a stagnant puddle.

“Thorin?” he called softly; sound would travel through these large tunnels. There was no answer, and he kept walking. Judging from how far he’d walked, he should be nearing the Temple soon. “Thorin?” he tried again, hoping against hope that he was here. When again there was no reply, Bilbo did his best to ignore the tension coiling in his body and carried on.

There were other tunnels branching off the main storm sewer but Bilbo was reluctant to follow any of them without a light, the empty blackness unwelcoming. He kept following the main tunnel, treading softly so he wouldn’t make too much noise – he could do without bringing any unwelcome attention to himself – and then he heard it–

A muted cough. He froze, a hand reaching for his knife; it had come from the side tunnel just up ahead. There was no other sound – no footsteps, no weapons or tools clanking, no sounds of movement – which meant whoever it was was still there. A surge of hope rose in him – could it be Thorin? No-one knew Bilbo was here so it was unlikely to be someone lying in wait for him, though if it was he’d be able to fend them off easily enough. It could be an old homeless person taking refuge in the sewers, but if that was the case then they’d present no problem to Bilbo. Deciding to risk it, he moved forward stealthily, making no noise; he took a deep breath as he stood at the junction before pushing forward into the darkness. It was so all-encompassing, it felt as if Bilbo was being wrapped in it and he had to remind himself to breathe. He could hear ragged breaths, almost panting, from somewhere up ahead and he tightened his grip on his knives, holding his own breath–

He gasped when he felt the sharp blade against his neck, letting out an involuntary squeak as he froze.

“Bilbo?” Thorin’s voice was rasping and raw and the next moment the pressure of the sword against his neck was gone. Bilbo’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness and he saw Thorin, his face ghostly pale, collapse to the ground and the sword fall from his grasp with a clatter.

“Thorin!” Bilbo cried, falling to his knees to catch Thorin as he fell. “Sweet Yavanna, what happened to you?”

Thorin didn’t reply, just gave a grunt; for the second time that day Bilbo felt the unmistakeable sticky warmth of blood on his hands. His breath started to come short and fast as he smelt the iron tang of it. Breathing through his mouth, he spoke clearly but sharply.

“Thorin, we’re going to have to move to somewhere with more light.” The Son had closed his eyes as he fell and he opened them now, though it seemed to be a struggle and when they were open they were unfocussed. “Come on,” Bilbo said gently, hoping his strength would be enough to get Thorin up even with his arm still sore from the fight with the Templar. “Up you get.”

He dragged Thorin more than helped him up, but it got the Son to his feet until he could lean against the wall while Bilbo picked up his sword. He had to get Thorin to where there was a little more light so he could tend to his wounds – he was in no fit state to be moving even a few yards, let alone halfway across the city to get back to Rohan and Óin.

They only walked a few yards, Bilbo with Thorin’s arm around his shoulders, but it seemed to take an Age. Thorin was so heavy and he could only limp, his body a deadweight where it was draped over Bilbo’s, and it was with relief that they made it back to the main tunnel where light filtered in through the grille a few feet away.

Bilbo helped Thorin down carefully, but even so Thorin still hissed when he touched the floor.

“I’m sorry, sorry,” Bilbo soothed. Now they had light he could see that Thorin’s cloak was more black than blue, the left leg of his breeches the same, sticking to his leg. The smell of blood was pervasive, metallic and sharp, and Bilbo forced himself to keep breathing as he considered what to do next. He needed to get the blood-stained clothes out of the way, that was for sure; he pulled out his knife and began cutting away the wet material of the breeches, pulling Thorin’s cloak off – which elicited another groan from the Son – before doing the same to his shirt.

When Bilbo could see the extent of the damage he was nearly at a loss as to what to do. Thorin’s shoulder still had half a wretched crossbow bolt embedded in the flesh, which had turned a nasty red colour, and he had a deep gash across his side and stomach which was accounting for most of the blood. It was still bleeding heavily, crimson oozing out with every laboured breath Thorin took. And his leg – it was all purple and bruised, and there was another cut down his thigh to his knee.

“What did they do to you?” Bilbo breathed, aghast. Thorin didn’t answer, his breath coming short and shallow and sweat beading on his forehead. His eyes were screwed shut.

Bilbo worked fast, removing what remained of the crossbow bolt from Thorin’s shoulder ever so carefully and doing his best to clean the wounds with strips from his own shirt – though without any clean water it wasn’t particularly effective. He chewed athelas and pressed it down on the wounds, hoping it would help stem the bleeding at least, before ripping more bandages from his own shirt and undershirt and tying them tightly around the wounds. Thorin was silent throughout most of it but fortunately – though perhaps not for him – he remained awake, his breathing fast and pained and occasionally letting out a groan when Bilbo tied the bandages too tightly.

After he’d finished, Thorin’s hand gripped his arm and Bilbo turned to look at him, swallowing thickly.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, not meeting Thorin’s eye. “I’m sorry I can’t do better, I’m sorry you’re _hurt–”_

“Bilbo.” His voice was barely more than a hoarse whisper but it stopped Bilbo immediately. “Is Elrond alive?”

“Yes,” Bilbo nodded. Thorin closed his eyes.

“Good. Now...get me out of this puddle.”

 

***

 

If Thorin hadn’t been quite so injured he might have been mortified by the fact that he was transported back to Rohan in a cart.

In the back of a cart, nestled between crates of vegetables and hidden under a blanket.

At least he spent the majority of it somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, too much in pain to really notice what was happening besides the fact that every jolt of the cart over the cobblestones caused him agony. Even Dwalin and Dori carrying him through the tunnels to their hideout in Rohan jostled his wounds too much and it was a relief when Oin gave him some milk of the poppy to send him to sleep.

When he woke, the room was dark save for a solitary candle and a figure slumped at the desk. Thorin blinked and tried to sit up – before the fierce pain that shot through him reminded him he was injured, and he couldn’t stop the groan that escaped him then.

The figure at the desk sat up with a jerk and Thorin would have known those curls anywhere. “Thorin?” Bilbo’s voice was muffled with sleep and he blinked as he took in the sight before him, Thorin’s no doubt pained expression. “Oh, my god, did you try and _move?_ ” Bilbo demanded, standing up and rushing over to the bed. “You complete idiot, you’re _injured._ ”

“Yes, I can tell,” Thorin bit out as Bilbo rearranged his pillows behind him so that he was half sitting up. It was only when Bilbo’s cool fingers were on his skin as he helped him up that Thorin realised he was shirtless and he was grateful for the darkness in the room so that Bilbo wouldn’t notice his blush. Mahal, he was such a fool.

“You’ve been out nearly two days,” Bilbo said softly, moving away back to the desk and lighting more candles, illuminating the room with their soft warm glow. He brought the chair over to Thorin’s side. “Óin’s got you to eat a couple of times but I don’t think you really woke up.”

“I don’t remember waking up,” Thorin admitted. “It’s been that long? What happened? You – you said Elrond was safe?”

“He is. He got away to Beleriand last night. Some of the Children have gone with him to make sure he gets there.”

Thorin let out a small huff, the most his injured body would allow as a laugh. “I bet Smaug’s furious.”

Bilbo looked away. “I’m sure he is.”

Thorin watched him as Bilbo sat looking at his hands, worrying the fabric of his robes. “Why are you here?”

“What?” Bilbo asked, looking up as if startled.

“Why are you here? In – in my chamber,” Thorin specified.

“I was keeping watch in case you woke up,” Bilbo said.

“Remind me not to ever put you on sentry duty then,” Thorin said with a small smile. “You fell asleep.”

“Hush,” Bilbo replied, his lips quirking upwards in response. “It’s the first sleep I’ve got since the night before the Feast.”

“Why?” Thorin demanded. “You should have slept today. What have you been doing?”

“Well, I was – here,” Bilbo said, looking embarrassed and not meeting Thorin’s eye again. “It’s my fault you’re hurt and I said I’d stay with you.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin said, his heart doing funny things which he did his best to ignore. “It’s not your fault. You’re not the one who gave me these injuries.”

“Maybe so,” Bilbo muttered, still not looking at Thorin.

“Maybe so, what’s for certain is that I’m only here because you found me.”

Bilbo did look at him then, a strange expression on his face. “I…” he ducked his head. “I thought you’d hate me for that. You hated me for it before.”

Thorin was the one to look away, this time in shame. “I know I said that. But I… I don’t hate you, Bilbo. I–” he coughed, his throat suddenly dry. “I do resent that fact though I know I shouldn’t. But I don’t hate you.” He closed his eyes, screwing them shut. “I couldn’t hate you.”

There was silence for a moment before Bilbo spoke again.

“I’m going to make a deal with Azog.”

Thorin’s eyes flew open and he nearly tried to sit up again. “You _what_?”

“I’m going to make a deal with Azog,” Bilbo repeated, face set with determination as he met Thorin’s gaze.

“No you’re not,” Thorin growled.

“I am, because it’s our best chance of defeating Smaug.”

“Bilbo, Azog cannot be _trusted,_ ” Thorin said trough gritted teeth. “He is evil, he is a killer, and he will kill you too. He killed my _family._ I cannot–” he took a shuddering breath. “You can’t.” _I cannot let him take you from me too._

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo said and he did sound apologetic. “But it really is our best option and I’m going to meet him, whether you want me to or not.”

“I won’t let you.”

“You can’t stop me,” Bilbo said, sounding resigned. “And we’re allies. You don’t have control over what I do or don’t do.”

“You would purposefully put yourself at risk – risk the quest–”

“Only as much as you do every time you leave these quarters,” Bilbo pointed out. “You’re a wanted man and in more danger just by existing than I _may_ be in if I meet Azog.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin said, his voice dangerously close to breaking. “I am _asking_ you not to go.”

“And you know that I must,” Bilbo said gently. Thorin screwed his eyes shut again, unable to look at Bilbo. There was silence in the room for a few long moments, Thorin feeling fear pooling in his stomach, turning his limbs to lead. How could Bilbo do this, knowing what Azog had done?  What he would do if he caught them now?

Eventually he trusted himself to speak. “Please fetch Óin for me. I need more laudanum.”

Bilbo stood. “Thorin…”

“Get Óin. Please,” Thorin said through gritted teeth, his eyes still shut so he didn’t have to look at Bilbo.

Bilbo let out a sigh and Thorin heard him head to the door. “I am sorry,” he said as he pulled it open. “But it’s for the best.”

He left and the door shut behind him, leaving Thorin feeling sick and cold and – for the first time in a long while – scared to his very bones.

 

***

 

It hadn’t been hard to arrange a meeting with Azog, all things considered. All it had taken was a few whispers in the right ears, a few coins slipped to the right person, and Bilbo had an invitation to dine with the Defiler by the end of the week. Not that it meant Bilbo wasn’t nervous – Thorin must have told the others to try and put him off going, as the Sons seemed to take every opportunity to tell him increasingly horrific stories of things Azog had done.

He knew, of course, that Azog had been responsible for the deaths of Thorin’s family, but he tried to ignore the gruesome stories the Sons were telling. If Azog was risking his position – his life – to try and cross Smaug, then it was worth at least speaking to the man.

On the evening he was to dine with Azog, Bilbo left the hideout (ignoring the worried looks the rest of the Sons shot him) and made his way to the Citadel. There was a light drizzle in the air, more of a warm summer mist than rain; it kept many people inside, making his journey surprisingly easy.

He arrived right on time and after observing the mansion a while and ascertaining there were no traps or ambushes laid for him, Bilbo knocked on the servants’ door as he’d been instructed.

Azog’s household was just like any in the Citadel – he was ushered in by a maid, greeted by a harried, red-faced cook as he passed through the kitchen and led into a very grand parlour by a very formal and proper butler. Nothing about these people suggested their master was evil.

“His lordship will join you momentarily,” the butler said. “Would you care for a glass of wine?”

“No, thank you,” Bilbo said, hoping he didn’t sound too nervous. He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace as he waited for Azog, on edge but ready in case this had all turned out to be a trap. He stilled when he heard Azog approach the door and turned to see a huge man standing in the doorway.

 _Thorin had been right, he really was ugly as a bulldog –_ he had scars on his face, his nose looked as if it had been broken multiple times, and one hand was slightly crooked, as if the bones had been broken and not quite healed right. Bilbo schooled his features to give away nothing of his thoughts as Azog entered the room, neither of them taking their eyes from the other.

“Master Baggins,” Azog said. His eyes were small and icy blue. Cruel eyes.

“Azog,” Bilbo offered in return, hoping his voice hadn’t given away his apprehension.

“A Child of Yavanna knocking on my door,” Azog said; his voice was deep and rasping, used to giving orders and having them obeyed. “It’s not something I’d have thought to see: an Assassin seeking an audience with the Commander of the City Watch.”

“Indeed,” Bilbo agreed, his eyes following Azog as the man began to pace just as Bilbo had done. “It’s not something I make a habit of.”

“It was dangerous for you to come here. You’re an enemy of the state, Master Baggins.”

“As is anyone who attempts or even considers trying to double-cross Smaug,” Bilbo said pointedly and Azog gave a small nod as if in agreement, a half smile on his face.

“You must have a very good reason for risking yourself coming here,” Azog said, slowly beginning to pace. Bilbo stayed still as stone, even as Azog drew nearer. “What’s to say I won’t hand you over to Smaug right this instant?”

“Because you’re intrigued,” Bilbo replied immediately. He didn’t take his eyes off Azog’s for even a second. “And you don’t know how much _I_ know. You hand me over to Smaug, and I could do the same.”

Azog’s eyes had narrowed, but his half smile never left his face. “And what’s stopping me from killing you instead?”

Bilbo gave a little smile of his own. “As I said. You’re intrigued.”

Azog’s seemed to be satisfied with that answer and he bowed his head an inch. “Indeed I am, Master Baggins.”

There was a knock on the parlour door. “Dinner is ready, my lord,” the butler said as he appeared in the doorway.

“Come,” Azog said. “Let’s eat.”

Bilbo allowed himself to be led through into the dining room, where two plates were set. Bilbo sat across from Azog, noting the way the light in here emphasised the lines on his face, the shadows under his eyes. Neither of them spoke as the starter was brought in, and Bilbo only hesitated momentarily before tucking in. Azog was curious – he wasn’t going to poison him. At least, not _yet_ – perhaps with dessert.

“So,” Azog said into the quiet room, the only other sound the clinking of their cutlery against the plates. Bilbo noticed he only used one hand, the other crooked one resting lightly on the table. The fingers flexed as Bilbo watched and he hastily looked back at his own plate, hoping Azog hadn’t noticed his interested gaze. “Tell me why you’re here.”

“I want to make a deal with you.”

Azog regarded him thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing. “What sort of deal?”

“One that would bring us both a certain level of satisfaction.” Bilbo paused before continuing. “You’re bringing soldiers into the city.”

Azog’s eyes lit up for a moment. “And how did you find out about that?”

“I’m a Child of Yavanna. The birds and the trees have ears, you know.”

Azog said nothing, leaning back in his seat; the butler entered again to clear the plates and the main course was brought in by a maid. It was a huge roast chicken, glazed and cooked to perfection, with golden roast potatoes. It wasn’t as luxurious as the food Smaug had provided, but Smaug did enjoy flaunting his wealth on fine things. Once the staff had left, Azog spoke.

“And how are my...soldiers of interest to you?”

“You’re going to kill Smaug, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

“And if I am?”

“Then I will help you – bring them in, hide them. On one condition.” Azog’s gaze sharpened. “That you stop hunting the Sons of Durin.”

Azog let out a hollow laugh. “The Sons of Durin?” he spat the words out. “That scum? I’ve been trying to kill them the last fifteen years. Why should I stop now?”

“Because they are your best hope of hiding a troop of armed soldiers in the city,” Bilbo said shortly. “And because your feud is not with them, it’s with Smaug, just as theirs is.”

“They _killed_ my _son,_ ” Azog said, his voice furious. “They _murdered_ him, and Smaug is still letting them run free–”

“No. It wasn’t the Sons who murdered Bolg.”

“It wasn’t?” Bilbo shook his head. “And how would _you_ know that? Are the Children suddenly privy to the Sons’ plans?”

“This one is,” Bilbo said quietly. Azog fell silent. “We have an...agreement.”

“So you know who _did_ kill him?” Azog growled. “Smaug refused to look into it – said it was his own fault, that he had hundreds of enemies who might have wanted to kill him.”

“Maybe he’s right,” Bilbo said, and Azog looked at him with anger. “But he hasn’t given you justice. And you want justice, don’t you?”

“That man has been shitting on me ever since we first failed to kill Oakenshield. Oh, he still kept me in his pocket, as his _creature,_ but even death is too kind an end for that man.”

“Some might say the same about you,” Bilbo said and the look in Azog’s eyes then was enough to chill his blood. “Please, Azog. If you don’t help me – help the Sons – you’re next on their list. Thorin Oakenshield wants nothing more than to see you dead and they’re getting stronger now – this time they won’t fail. If you want to get Smaug you have to make this truce with the Sons.”

“The Sons are weak,” Azog sneered. “They always have been. That whole line is tainted with weakness.”

“No,” Bilbo countered. “They’ve been hiding but they’re not weak, Azog, and they will kill you. This is your chance to save yourself – if you want to see Smaug dead this is the only way, or you’ll have a Durin’s blade through your heart before you get anywhere near killing Smaug.”

Azog said nothing; he turned back to his forgotten food and resumed eating with a sudden vehemence. Bilbo didn’t press the matter and also started eating again, though he wasn’t actually hungry and was carefully aware of Azog’s every movement.

They sat in silence until the food was gone and the maid came to clear away the plates, though Bilbo could see from the distracted look in Azog’s pale blue eyes and the tic in his jaw as he sat, fingers drumming against the table, that he was considering Bilbo’s proposal.

“Fine,” Azog spoke suddenly, his voice loud in the silence. “I’ll do as you suggest.”

Bilbo let out a little breath. “You’ll stop hunting the Sons in return for their help in getting your soldiers into the city unnoticed and hiding them?”

“Yes, yes,” Azog said, waving a hand at the details. “We’ll need to meet again to arrange it all.”

“Of course.”

“But next time, bring Oakenshield.” Azog’s cruel smile had returned. “It’s been such a long time since I last saw him.”

 

***

 

If you’d asked Thorin a list of impossible things, there were some that were certain: the sun rising in the west; Smaug and the Durins forgiving and forgetting; Thorin sprouting wings from his back and learning to fly.

Thorin Oakenshield and Azog the Defiler sitting in the same room about to broker a deal would have been on that list too, and yet here they were.

Bilbo had told him about their meeting and Azog’s final words (once Thorin had calmed down enough to listen to him without getting angry that he’d gone in the first place); Thorin hadn’t been at all surprised. Azog had always had a vengeful streak and a twisted sense of humour; of course he’d want to see Thorin. Bilbo had been reluctant for Thorin to go – mainly because of his injuries, though thanks to Bilbo’s efforts and Óin’s treatments Thorin was healing surprisingly well – but also because Thorin wasn’t particularly diplomatic. They both knew this. And putting Thorin in the same room as his age-old enemy was asking for trouble.

But Azog had been clear, and Thorin didn’t want to think about what he might do if they didn’t comply with this sick request, so he’d come. He’d dosed up on Bilbo’s willowbark tea beforehand to dull the pain, though he was grateful they were sitting so that Azog wouldn’t notice his limp, or the way his stomach and shoulder still ached dully with every breath.

He and Bilbo sat opposite Azog in the back room of one of the inns in Rivendell – neutral territory for them both with easy escape access should it become necessary. He was just as ugly as the last time Thorin had seen him close up, his sword through Frerin’s body. At the thought of his brother Thorin tensed up and Bilbo, sitting beside him, noticed and sent him a warning glance.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Bilbo said to Azog.

“As am I. How nice to see you again particularly, Thorin Oakenshield.” Azog turned to shoot him a smile, his eyes lit with a cruel light, and it took all of Thorin’s willpower not to swipe his hidden blade across the foul man’s neck–

“The sentiment is not returned,” Thorin said stiffly. He heard Bilbo give an irritated huff beside him. “Enough small talk. Let’s get onto why we’re here.”

“Thank you, Thorin,” Bilbo said and it was only because he’d heard that tone of voice used on him on multiple occasions before that he noted the displeasure in the pleasantry. “I think we all know why we’re here. Azog needs our help to hide his troops in Arda and in return he is going to stop his hunt for the Sons of Durin. Are you both agreed on this?” Bilbo’s voice had a steely edge to it.

Thorin gave a short nod of affirmation, as did Azog – who had finally dropped the smile and the charming act, and his eyes were cold as ice but to Thorin’s relief he didn’t look like he was about to go and tell on them to Smaug.

“When are your troops arriving?” Bilbo directed this question to Azog.

“A week’s time.”

Bilbo gave a thoughtful nod. “We can disguise them before they reach the city gates – as farmers and merchants, that’ll stop any awkward questions at the gates. I assume they will have their own orders?”

Again, Azog gave a nod.

“Then we shall see to it that your hundred soldiers are hidden within the city and have access to the city to fulfil their orders. The rest will be up to you or your men themselves.”

“That is enough.”

Thorin heard Bilbo give a little exhale of air, as if in relief.

“And in return?”

“As you have said: I will not persecute the Sons of Durin. Though many of my orders come from Smaug directly, you understand, so I will have to at least keep up pretences. But I swear that no Son of Durin will purposefully come to harm at the hands of me or my men.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo said. There was a pause. “Thorin?”

“And the Sons of Durin will no longer consider you a target,” he said reluctantly, glaring at Azog, whose smile returned at his words.

“You’re so like your father,” he sneered. “Did the Durins never wonder why they were left friendless after their fall from grace?”

“Azog,” Bilbo said warningly. Thorin’s fists clenched under the table and he was so ready to lean forwards, cut open the man’s throat, their deal be damned–

“Better to live a life on the run but honest than a life spent as nothing more than a _toy_ to someone more important,” Thorin retorted icily.

“Pah,” Azog snorted. “Your father and your grandfather had the same idea of honour, and look where it got them.”

Thorin felt Bilbo’s hand on his arm and that was the only thing that kept him from reacting, he supposed. Instead he simply stood and strode out, vision red and blood boiling.

He was furious for the entire journey home, though it started to abate once the effect of the willowbark had worn off and every step began to be an agony, each breath knifing through him. When he reached the hideout he was pale and sweating and Óin began to tut over him as he helped him back to his chamber, giving him poppy milk and redoing the bandages.

When he was done, Thorin was left alone and was just dropping off into sleep when he heard a small knock at the door.

“Hello?” he asked, confused as to who would come and see him when they knew he was probably supposed to be sleeping. The doorknob turned and the door opened, a blonde head poking around it. “Fíli,” he smiled. She entered, Kíli following in behind her, and they came and sat on the bed next to him, both being very careful and eyeing up his chest warily.

“Are you going to die, Uncle?” Kíli asked, a frown puckering his forehead. “Óin said you were digging your grave.”

“He did, did he?” Thorin said, raising an eyebrow at Kíli. “Don’t you worry, my lad. I’m not going anywhere.”

The two snuggled closer to him and Thorin felt content and drowsy, his previous anger ebbing away as the poppy milk worked and the warm weight of his niece and nephew comforting. Mahal, how he loved them; he couldn’t imagine a world without them and he unconsciously tightened his grip around them.

“Can’t breathe, Uncle,” Fíli laughed as she squirmed.

“Sorry, _madtithbirzul_  ,” he murmured, his eyes turning heavy, and he loosened his hold just a little, still keeping them close. He wished he could feel this content all the time; that he could bottle up this feeling and save it. Especially as Fíli was older, nearly fifteen – Thorin knew soon she would be too old to hug him like this. The thought made him strangely sad.

“Will Mother be able to live with us soon?” Kíli asked, his voice heavy with drowsiness too.

“I hope so, Kíli,” Thorin whispered. “I hope so.”

He drifted off to sleep then, bracketed between two smaller bodies, and he only woke when he heard another knock at the door.

“Come in,” he said softly, not wanting to wake the children. They were so peaceful like this, so free from worry. Thorin couldn’t help but notice that Fíli had a grim set to her face nowadays, and that Kíli was worried easily – his question to Thorin earlier was indicative enough of that.

The door opened and Bilbo stepped in, looking slightly surprised when he noticed Fíli and Kíli.

“Oh,” he breathed. “I didn’t realise you had company.” He gave a small smile.

“It’s alright,” Thorin smiled back. “They’re not the most entertaining at the moment.” Bilbo smiled again at that.

“I wanted to check how you were.” He sat at the end of Thorin’s bed, his gaze taking in the children’s peaceful faces, and he brushed a strand of Kíli’s hair away from his face. The boy let out a little snuffle and Thorin thought his heart might burst.

“I’m fine. Óin gave me more poppy milk and as you can see, I have the most attentive carers.” Bilbo smiled. “How was Azog?”

“Oh, fine,” Bilbo said, looking up at Thorin. “Really. He was just baiting you, I think because he didn’t like knowing that if he didn’t agree then you were going to kill him.”

Thorin gave a snort. “I bet he didn’t like it. That man…” he let out a short breath. “I can’t stand to think of him. Not when I have Fíli and Kíli with me – the thought he might take them from me–”

“He won’t,” Bilbo said, reaching a hand out and placing it on Thorin’s where it rested on Fíli’s shoulder. “I promise you he won’t. And if he does – if he harms any one of you – he’ll have me to answer to.”

Thorin only nodded, still too muddled from sleep to deal with the emotion flooding through him.

“I am sorry for running off like I did. I left you alone with him.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo said, his voice almost sharp. “Don’t apologise. I didn’t want to take you there in the first place. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

Thorin looked at him then, a rueful smile on his face. “We could go round in circles like this.”

Bilbo returned the smile, his eyes crinkling and Thorin’s heart thumping loudly in his chest. “We could. But we won’t. Get some rest, Thorin. I’ll wake you all when it’s dinner.”

Gratefully, Thorin sank back down into the pillows as Bilbo stood, pressing a soft kiss each to Fíli’s and Kíli’s heads. Sleep was claiming him as soon as his eyes were shut.

He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard a whisper of “I’m sorry” and warm lips pressing a kiss to his temple; but before he could open his eyes to find out, sleep pulled him under and he was unconscious again.

 

***

 

It was becoming far too easy to lie to Thorin, Bilbo found, guilt burning through him from his fingertips to his toes. Every time, he thought Thorin would see through his excuse, would notice the blush he was sure was making its way down his neck, would hear the heavy weight of a lie – but every time, Thorin only nodded and sent a half smile in his direction and Bilbo would turn and flee.

Much as he hated it, it was probably a good thing Thorin never did realise. Bilbo had no choice, not unless he wanted to watch the Shire burn and all the Children along with it.

The lush interior of the Lonely Tower had long since ceased to amaze him; now the gilt furnishings and obvious wealth just made him long for the comfort of his smial in the Shire – of a comfy chair in the sunny parlour, a cup of good tea in his hands and Lobelia’s laugh as they chatted together. He felt suddenly acutely homesick, a physical weight resting in his stomach, and he would have given anything to be back in Bag End right then.

But he forced himself past it as he climbed the circular staircase up to the rooms where Smaug would always keep him waiting before arriving in a flurry of crimson silks; he had information to pass on and games to play, and couldn’t afford to be distracted.

Just as all the other times he’d been here, Bilbo was shown into the antechamber with the crimson chandelier; no matter how many times he saw it, it never failed to cause a shiver down his spine when everything looked as if it was bathed in blood.

This time, however, Smaug was waiting for him.

“Good evening, Master Baggins,” he said silkily, approaching Bilbo on silent feet. “I’ve been looking forward to your visit. You haven’t come to see me in a while now.”

“It’s been a busy week,” Bilbo said, keeping his voice devoid of emotion and desperately making sure Smaug couldn’t see how perturbed he was by this turn of events. Never once had Smaug deviated from routine; never once had the pattern changed, and yet this time Smaug had been waiting for him. It was a little thing, but it gave Bilbo a sense of foreboding.

“Hm,” Smaug made an amused sound. “I bet it has.”

He said nothing more and Bilbo didn’t respond; Smaug turned to lead him into the main chamber beyond and Bilbo made to follow, but just before he pushed open the ornate doors Smaug looked back at him.

“Take off your cloak.”

“What?”

“Your cloak. Take it off.”

“I don’t have any weapons on me,” Bilbo said, frowning. “The guards took them.”

“I know,” Smaug said. “Now remove your cloak, Master Baggins.” His voice was soft but cold, brooking no arguments, and with no small amount of confusion Bilbo did as he was told; he unbuckled the leather belt and pulled the cloak off, draping it over an arm. “Leave it here.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

Bilbo let the white material fall to the ground; he saw Smaug’s eyes light up as the material swished onto the crimson carpet; only then did he open the door and allow Bilbo through.

Like last time, the little table by the window had been set with crystal goblets and a decanter of red wine; the sofa beside it only a shade or two lighter. Grateful that at least something was going as usual, Bilbo took the proffered place beside Smaug and accepted the wine without comment. As the drink hit his tongue his eyes widened in surprise – it was spiced wine, fiery on the tongue, and not at all what Smaug usually drank.

“Now,” Smaug said, his voice like velvet. “You promised you’d have something good for me this time.”

“I did,” Bilbo said, shivering in the large room without his cloak. “I do. I have this.” He pulled a folded spread of parchment out from his breeches pocket and handed it to Smaug, who took it with bony fingers. “It’s a page from their ledger. You can see exactly how much money they have, what they’re spending it on, who from and how they’re buying things. It was the most recent one I could get without raising suspicion.”

“Yes,” Smaug said slowly. He laid the parchment carefully down on the table, smoothing out the creases. “Very good, Master Baggins. What else?”

“They’re going to infiltrate some of the nobles’ houses. They want to know who is being paid by you and what for.”

“Excellent… Anything else?”

“Yes,” Bilbo said. He paused just for a moment. “Thorin Oakenshield is injured. Badly.”

“How badly?” Smaug’s voice was sharp.

“Very,” Bilbo said, hoping his voice wouldn’t break as he remembered the blood pouring out of Thorin as he lay in the dark sewer, the iron tang thick in the air. “He’s only just strong enough to be walking again.” _Though if he knew what was good for him he wouldn’t be a fool about it and would go back to resting–_

“How interesting.” Smaug’s smile made Bilbo shiver. “And how did he come to be so injured?”

“During a fight with a Templar guard,” Bilbo said, wary of Smaug’s sudden stillness beside him. “At the Feast of Ilúvatar.”

“Ah yes, the Feast. I wasn’t pleased when I heard that my attempts at getting rid of Elrond Peredhel were foiled by the Sons, as I’m sure you can guess.” His voice was light, almost bored, but when Bilbo chanced a glance at him there was anger simmering in his cat-like eyes. “But alas, he may not be dead but he is gone from Arda, at least. No doubt you helped the Sons with their misled idea of heroics?”

“I had to,” Bilbo said stiffly, jutting his jaw out in determination.

“So you _were_ involved. I thought the Sons were too stupid to have managed it on their own.” His eyes bored into Bilbo’s. “You knew how important it was that Elrond died.”

“I had to,” Bilbo repeated. “Otherwise they would have been suspicious. It was the only way I could get them to trust me.”

“And do they?” Smaug asked then, his eyes lighting up and a predatory smile on his face.

“Yes,” Bilbo said, only hesitating a moment. “Yes, they trust me now.”

“How perfect,” Smaug breathed. “If only those fools knew that you’re _my_ creature. But then, the Durins always were weak when it came to gold…” One of Smaug’s hands came up to fist in Bilbo’s curls, pulling just enough to hurt a little and a faraway look in his eyes. Bilbo wanted to ask what he meant by that, but then Smaug let him go and stood to refill their wine glasses.

“Does Thorin Oakenshield still keep you with him?”

“Not as much, no,” Bilbo said. “Not now he knows – _thinks_ he knows–” his voice nearly broke at the correction – “that I’m not a spy for you or Azog.”

“Fool,” Smaug gave a soft laugh. He turned back to Bilbo. “So if I told you to, you would be able to bring him to me? To lead him into a trap?”

“I…” The thought made Bilbo feel cold all over, and he missed the comforting presence of his cloak more than ever. “I suppose I could,” he whispered. Smaug’s gaze sharpened.

“What’s this?” he asked, sitting beside Bilbo again and cupping his chin, tilting his head so Bilbo had no choice but to meet his eye. He did so reluctantly. “You ‘suppose’ you could?”

“He is still stubborn,” Bilbo said.

Smaug shook his head. “No. That’s not what you mean, is it, Master Baggins.”

“It’s true,” Bilbo maintained, fear seeping through him and he hoped desperately that Smaug would leave it. But the man’s expression only grew more piercing and Bilbo was sure he could smell his fear – that he had unnatural power – he forced himself to be calm despite the nausea rising in his stomach and Smaug’s hand on his chin. Panicking would do him no favours.

“Bilbo, Bilbo, Bilbo,” Smaug said softly, his thumb stroking Bilbo’s cheek, making him freeze. “Why don’t you tell me the truth?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Bilbo’s lips were cold.

“You don’t _want_ to lead Thorin to me. You don’t want me to kill him, do you?” Smaug gave a laugh but it was humourless, cold and sharp. “You’ve fallen in _love_ with him, haven’t you?” Bilbo said nothing, his heart pounding painfully fast. “Oh, this is _precious._ ” Smaug let go of him suddenly and Bilbo held his breath, unable to move.

“Stand up, Master Baggins,” Smaug said coldly and Bilbo scrambled to obey. Smaug gripped his forearm and began to lead him to another door at the other end of the room where two guards stood; Bilbo was so scared he couldn’t hear beyond the blood rushing in his ears; his heart seemed to be jumping out of his chest–

Smaug opened the door and pulled Bilbo inside. Just like the other room, the walls were lined with crimson but there was less gold in this room and it was darker, only a couple of lamps lighting it. Bilbo saw the huge bed at the other end of the room and felt sick, but Smaug only pulled him to one side, where a lamp shone down onto–

A gem. About the size of both of Bilbo’s fists, it was clear at first but the more Bilbo looked the more he saw swirls of pink of blue, a whole rainbow glittering and dancing in its depths. He stared at it, entranced.

“The Arkenstone,” Smaug said, his voice reverent. “Beautiful, is it not, Master Baggins?”

“Yes,” Bilbo agreed with a hushed voice, forgetting Smaug’s grip on his arm in the face of the stone’s beauty. It was hypnotic; he felt as if he could stare at it for hours, simply watching–

“Ask Thorin Oakenshield about it,” Smaug said, a cruel smile lighting up his face. Bilbo tore his eyes away from the stone, fear once again pouring over him in an icy cold rush. Smaug’s hand was beginning to hurt. When Smaug spoke again it was in a low voice, soft yet cruel. “I’m almost tempted to let you take it to him, if only to watch him suffer; watch as it corrupts him, sends him mad, just as it did his father and grandfather before him…” His eyes had a sickly light to them as he looked at the stone and instinctively Bilbo tried to back away, but Smaug tightened his grip on his arm, the other hand coming up to grip his chin again.

“Please–”

“He is using you, my little burglar. He is using you as a means to an end and if I were to offer him this stone… he would let you die without a second thought.”

“No,” Bilbo bit out, shaking his head as best he could with Smaug’s hands holding him. “You’re wrong.”

“He has weighed your life and found it worth _nothing_ ,” Smaug hissed. “Not like me. You are _mine,_ Master Baggins–”

He pushed Bilbo backwards, forcing him against the wall, and Bilbo thought he was going to be sick. He couldn’t stop the squeak that escaped him as Smaug reached into his blood red robes and pulled out a knife, the hilt adorned with rubies and garnets which flashed in the light of the lamp. Bilbo screwed his eyes shut, waiting for the pain and the blackness, Thorin’s face the only thing he could see as he felt the blade against his windpipe–

But then it was gone and there was only the sound of fabric ripping and the feel of cold air hitting his skin as his shirt fell to the ground; Bilbo opened his eyes in shock, holding his breath.

Smaug was looking at the scars that mottled his skin with something akin to reverence, his eyes travelling over Bilbo’s chest to his left shoulder, down his arm and side. Bilbo didn’t even breathe, he was too afraid to move. Smaug brought the knife to the scarring on his shoulder, pressing the flat edge of the blade to it. Bilbo could only feel a ghost of something cold, the nerves long since dead.

“You don’t feel it?” Smaug asked, sounding awed. When Bilbo didn’t reply, unable to make his voice work, he turned the blade so the sharp edge was digging in; he pressed in, and Bilbo turned his head away as the blade broke the skin – just a nick, but enough that a little bead of red appeared. Smaug trailed the knife along his back, not pressing in, and all Bilbo could feel was an awareness rather than the physical knife; a ghostly trail of cold.

“How did you get these scars?” Smaug purred. “They’re beautiful…” Bilbo felt a sudden wetness on his back and knew Smaug had pressed the knife in again and made him bleed. He jumped when he felt Smaug’s other hand rest possessively on his hip and he saw the man’s attention had returned to the scarring on Bilbo’s shoulder, where it trailed over his breastbone to just above his nipple. He watched with a sense of detachment as Smaug made another nick in the scar and a droplet of crimson rolled down his skin, making him hiss as it reached the healthy, unscarred skin of his breast.

“Well?” Smaug demanded, pressing his knife into Bilbo’s unscarred collarbone and making him wince.

“Lake-town,” Bilbo choked out, his voice breaking. “Fifteen years ago, when you set the slum on fire.” His breath was coming short and fast now, and tears of pain, fear and terror were welling up, threatening to spill.

“Lake-town,” Smaug breathed. His hand again gripped Bilbo’s wrist, leaving bruises, as his body pushed forward and pressed Bilbo against the wall; Bilbo could feel the man’s excitement at the revelation as he pressed into him and he felt another wave of nausea. He couldn’t stop thinking about Thorin and he felt a sob break out of him before he could stop it, inhaling in a shuddering breath. “I gave you these, then. You really _are_ my creature, Master Baggins.”

He leant down and licked the droplet of blood from Bilbo’s skin, a flick of his thin hot tongue, before he lifted his head again and spoke in Bilbo’s ear, his breath warm and laced with a faint iron tang.

“And you’d better not forget it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _madtithbirzul_ = "little golden heart" according to [this post](http://jay345sal28.tumblr.com/post/118949263479/khuzdul4u-khuzdul-pet-names-and-other).
> 
> What did you think?! Thank you so much for continuing to read and leaving such lovely comments!


	10. Laboured and Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, chapter 10!! Thank you guys for being awesome and continuing to read//leave kudos//comment! It means the world to me you're all still enjoying it!
> 
> As for this chapter... be prepared for angst. They're still as stupid as ever and I apologise in advance if you end up smashing your head into a brick wall waiting for them to just get on with it already :P
> 
> And now, enjoy!!

**Chapter X**

“Are you sure you should be up again already?”

Thorin glowered at the doubt in Bilbo’s voice as the Child stood in his doorway, watching as Thorin moved around his chamber getting ready.

“I’ve been resting a good week already,” he said defensively. “I can walk just fine now. Believe it or not, this isn’t the worst I’ve been injured.”

Bilbo’s face tightened for just a moment before he nodded. “If you’re sure, Thorin. But you have to tell me as soon as you feel any pain, alright?  I have athelas and willowbark, so promise you’ll let me know if you need it?”

“Bilbo,” Thorin said, pulling on his cloak. “I promise.”

Bilbo sighed and let it go, and the two of them began to head out into the tunnels. They were on their way to the Moria Gate, where Bilbo had arranged to meet Azog to help him smuggle his soldiers into the city. Thorin didn’t like the thought of Bilbo being on his own with Azog and had insisted he accompany Bilbo, and it was telling that Bilbo had agreed despite Thorin’s injuries and lack of diplomacy – evidently he didn’t like being around Azog either, and the grateful look he shot Thorin as they walked made satisfaction warm his belly. He tried to ignore it, knowing it was foolish, but it was difficult when Bilbo had wormed his way so deeply into Thorin’s core.

When they surfaced out of the tunnels, they stepped out into a midsummer downpour. The rain was coming down in thick sheets, the world blanketed in grey. People rushed around with their heads bent low, trying to get out of the rain as quickly as possible; Bilbo and Thorin did the same, grateful as it meant no-one was looking at them too closely.

They made it out of the city without any questions asked and they made their way to the hilly area just outside the city, the tower where Thorin had first taught Bilbo to use a sword still jutting proudly up among the trees. To Thorin’s surprise that was where Bilbo was headed; when they reached the tower, still run down and crumbling, they found a handcart filled with crates and sacks hidden among the blocks of stone. Thorin ducked into the building, grateful for some shelter from the rain; his cloak was heavy with water.

“What’s this?” Thorin asked as Bilbo began checking through the sacks.

“The Children hid this here,” Bilbo said. “As a disguise for the soldiers.” He handed Thorin a sack, which was full of plain, rough spun clothes of wool. “If they turn up as a group of soldiers, questions are going to be asked. If they can pretend to be farmers or merchants, however…”

Thorin nodded in understanding. “The rain will probably help, then. The guards won’t want to look too closely if it means leaving their shelter.”

Bilbo sent him a little grin. “Exactly. Do you think you can help me with this?” He looked at Thorin dubiously and Thorin just managed not to roll his eyes.

“I’m not incapable, you know,” he said gruffly, and moved to lift one of the handles of the cart as Bilbo did the same on the other side. As they manoeuvred the cart out from the tower, Thorin couldn’t help but look up at the patchy roof, remembering how Bilbo had leapt from the heights into the emptiness below.

Bilbo saw him looking and followed his gaze. He made a noise, somewhere between a huff and a laugh and Thorin looked at him. “Your face when you made it down was priceless,” Bilbo said, his amusement clear on his face but he was evidently doing his best not to laugh.

Thorin scowled. “I thought you were dead,” he said. “You’d just jumped from thirty feet in the air! Of course I was worried.”

“Well,” Bilbo said mildly, “I’m not dead, and neither are you. And we won’t be for a long time yet.”

“That’s a dangerous thing to say.”

Bilbo looked down. “Maybe. But it’s dangerous times, and there’s worse things I could say.” Before Thorin could ask what he meant he shook his head and adjusted his grip on the handle of the cart. “Come on. We’re meeting Azog at the edge of the tree cover.”

Thorin complied and together they wheeled the handcart through the trees to the edge of the forest, where sure enough Azog was waiting, looking shifty and – Thorin noted with relish – more than a little nervous. He looked relieved when he caught sight of them, though he still gave Thorin a nasty smile.

His soldiers were waiting on the other side of the hillock, shielded from view by the terrain and the trees. There were fifty of them all told, and they came in groups of ten to collect their disguises. When they had all hidden their weapons and dressed in the plain clothes, they began to head towards the gate in their groups, staggered ten minutes apart to make sure they didn’t attract suspicion. Bilbo and Thorin went ahead and waited just inside the city, hidden up on the roofs and watching the guards on duty closely, but they let them through without any trouble; though at one point one of the guards nudged the other as a group of soldiers passed through with the cart, all looking thoroughly downtrodden (no doubt their sodden clothes helped with the pretence) but they laughed and went back to warming themselves at the fire in their sentry post.

As promised, Thorin had spoken to Nori and they’d found places to hide some of the soldiers; Azog hid the majority of them in his secret quarters under his mansion in the Citadel but some were hidden in an old warehouse in Greenwood, on the edge of Mirkwood. It was crumbling and empty and no-one ventured near it, Mirkwood’s presence uncomfortably close. Others were hidden in the now-derelict mining areas of Ered Luin.

Thorin couldn’t help but feel a sense of foreboding as he and Bilbo checked they were all settled and had their orders from Azog; he wanted to know what they were planning, but he’d save his questions for Azog. Mahal knew the man owed them answers at least.

Just as they’d agreed Azog was waiting for them in an unmarked carriage on the edge of Erebor; they slipped inside, Azog rapped on the roof and with a jolt they set off.

“They’re all settled in,” Bilbo told him.

“Thank you,” Azog said, and to Thorin’s surprise he sounded genuine. He even refrained from sending a snide comment in Thorin’s direction.

“You remember the deal?” Bilbo asked, his voice sharp.

“Of course. I won’t renege on our agreement.”

“And what are your plans for your soldiers?” Thorin cut in. “How do they fit in with killing Smaug?”

Azog gave a grin, his scarred pale face ghostly in the grey light from outside. “Just stir the city up a bit, Thorin Oakenshield. Light the fires that have already been built in the hearts of the people, remind Smaug how much he needs me; when he gets worried and confides in me, as he always does… I’ll kill him.”

Thorin shared a look with Bilbo.

“I believe this is your stop, gentlemen,” Azog said, and Thorin realised the carriage had pulled to a stop, the wall of the Citadel outside the window. “I’ll be in touch, Master Baggins.” And with that they were excused.

“Couldn’t even take us to Rohan after we just saved his stupid plan from failing,” Bilbo muttered as they watched his carriage drive off towards the gate into the Citadel.

“Count it as a blessing. It’s less time spent in his company,” Thorin said wryly. Bilbo gave a little laugh and they made their way to the Meduseld, the rain still coming down in sheets. By the time they got back Thorin’s thigh was beginning to shake with the effort of not limping and his chest was aching, but he didn’t want to prove Bilbo right. Though one look at him seemed to tell Bilbo everything; he gave a sigh of exasperation and reached into his pouch to pull out some willowbark.

“Honestly,” he said as he handed it to Thorin. “Has anyone ever told you how stubborn you are?”

“Has anyone ever told you how bad this tastes?” was Thorin’s reply and Bilbo only snorted and walked off, leaving Thorin strangely light-hearted despite the ache of his wounds and the fact he’d had to spend time with _Azog._

Over the next couple of days, there was a definite change in the city. There was an undercurrent of...excitement, of anticipation; groups of men would congregate in the inns and taverns, talking in low voices amongst themselves; boys still brave in their youth would shout abuse at the Templar guards that patrolled the streets before scampering away.

It was as if the city was waking up, readying itself. What for exactly, Thorin wasn’t sure; he didn’t even know if it was good or bad, but it was something. He supposed it was down to Azog’s men – perhaps it was them leading the illicit meetings in the taverns, encouraging the rebellious fire that burned low in the lads’ bellies.

At least, this was what Théoden told them; Thorin and the Sons had limited contact with the outside world. They were reliant on Théoden, and Bilbo’s excursions out into the city, for information.

Three days after they’d helped Azog bring his soldiers in, Théoden appeared in their quarters looking a little harried. Immediately Thorin was wary.

“Somethings happening in the Greenwood,” he said. “People are scared – they said there’s fighting–”

Thorin stood. “We need to know what’s happening.” He caught Bilbo’s eye, the Child sitting at the opposite end of the room now getting to his feet too.

They hurried out of their quarters, Théoden reassuring the others that it hadn’t spread to Rohan; when they reached Greenwood Thorin wasn’t expecting what he saw.

People were actually _fighting_ the guards, who looked as if they were retreating! Normal citizens, not soldiers, were pelting the guards with rotten vegetables, yelling abuse at them; the guards were backing away as groups of strong men armed with blacksmiths’ hammers and swords approached.

From their vantage point up on a roof, Thorin and Bilbo shared a hopeful look.

“This is happening,” Thorin breathed. “The guards are losing – look–” The group below them had broken ranks and was retreating as quickly as they could, having to push their way through more crowd. It parted quickly enough once they pulled out their swords but they didn’t attack, too focused on getting to safety, Thorin supposed. Cowardly Templars that they were.

“It’s a good sign,” Bilbo breathed, though he sounded hesitant.

“We’ll take it as such,” Thorin said, hoping he could be right this time.

The shouting and fighting below had calmed down now that the guards had retreated and they quickly made their way down to the ground, blending in with the other people going about their business as if nothing had happened.

As they made their way through the crowd they suddenly heard shouts from up ahead; they stopped uncertainly as people from in front started turning back, pushing past with panic on their faces. They heard the stamping of booted feet and the clinking of weapons and armour, and Thorin felt a moment of panic; the guards had rallied, come back with reinforcements.

He grabbed Bilbo’s sleeve and led them back the way they had come, desperately trying to reach one of the side streets or somewhere, some _thing_ that would afford them some cover–

“This way,” Bilbo hissed, tugging on Thorin’s cloak and Thorin allowed himself to be led as the marching boots got nearer, the sound of people crying out getting louder. Bilbo led them to an alley, mostly deserted though a couple of other people had had the same idea as them and were hurrying down it away from the guards. Bilbo pulled him into the shadow of a slanted lean-to, some poor devil’s excuse for shelter. “We could try climbing up onto the roof,” he suggested, and Thorin glanced up. The stone here was smooth, but it’d be worth a try.

“Perhaps,” he agreed, and stood to run his hands over the wall, trying to find purchase, but as he did so they heard the sound of more guards approaching from the other end of the alleyway. Thorin glanced round in alarm. “Shit,” he couldn’t stop the curse from escaping his mouth. They should have run while they had the chance; here they were, two sitting ducks for the Templar guards about to spot them–

Bilbo stood then, his hands coming up to rest on Thorin’s forearms. His eyes were flicking from end to end of the alley.

“Quickly,” he said. “Take off your cloak.”

Thorin was about to question the wisdom of that command but did as he was told, and Bilbo kicked it behind him, covering it from sight. Thorin nearly choked with surprise when Bilbo began tugging at his belt but he was twisting it so his sword was at his front, hidden; he still didn’t look at Thorin, whose heart was thudding painfully fast as adrenaline rushed through him and the sound of armour and weapons drew nearer.

Then they heard the order. “Split up. Check down there, flush ‘em out.”

“Yes sir,” came the answer and Bilbo glanced up at Thorin looking very apologetic.

“Thorin, you need to kiss me.”

Thorin stared at him, open-mouthed with shock, and didn’t move. He must have misheard.

A look of impatience crossed Bilbo’s features then and he reached up and pulled Thorin downwards; their lips met and all Thorin’s coherent thought fled his mind at the feel of Bilbo’s lips under his. He acted on instinct, pressing closer to Bilbo and a hand coming to cup his curls, fingers threading through the golden strands as their lips danced together, Bilbo’s opening just a fraction and unthinkingly Thorin took advantage of it, his tongue darting in to find Bilbo’s and making the other man’s breath hitch – Bilbo’s hands had come up to rest on his shoulder and tangling in his hair, pulling him closer–

A lecherous chuckle sounded from the end of the alley and Thorin froze, but Bilbo’s fingers digging into his shoulder in warning stopped him from turning around. The guard continued laughing.

“Don’t let me stop ye, lad,” he said, voice full of mirth, and then there was the sound of his armour clinking as he turned away. “No-one there, sir,” Thorin heard him say, still frozen in place impossibly close to Bilbo; when the guards had moved away for good Thorin immediately backed away, sure his face was a bright red. Bilbo’s cheeks were pink and it was very fetching indeed, but Thorin couldn’t bring himself to meet Bilbo’s eye, staring at the ground and just resisting the urge to scuff the ground with his boot like a naughty schoolboy.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Bilbo didn’t say anything, just bent to pick up Thorin’s now-dusty cloak and thrust it at him before moving towards the end of the alleyway.

“No harm done,” he said breezily; even though it sounded forced, Thorin appreciated the effort. “It was the only thing – well, the only thing I could think of.” His ears were flaming, Thorin could see as he followed him, and he didn’t let himself follow the train of thought his mind was threatening to go down.

Mahal, he really needed to stop. It wasn’t fair on Bilbo.

That didn’t make it any easier though, and Thorin tried not to think about the way he’d forgotten everything the moment their lips had met and he’d _held_ him.

He sighed, cursing himself for being so weak. He was weak and he was a fool, and Bilbo Baggins would be the death of him, he was sure.

 

***

 

If Bilbo was being rational, he knew that kissing Thorin had been their best hope of remaining undetected in that alleyway. The guard had simply seen two people kissing and had moved on.

But Bilbo wasn’t being rational. He was having an internal crisis and was struggling not to let his feelings show on his face, because _sweet Yavanna what had possessed him to make him think kissing Thorin like that was a good idea?_

Bilbo knew his feelings for Thorin were stronger than he wanted to admit.

He also knew it was dangerous to have these feelings. Smaug had found out, and Smaug would exploit these feelings if he could. Bilbo was terrified of his next meeting with Smaug, afraid the man would have found some way to use Bilbo’s regard for Thorin against him; he was terrified every waking moment that he wasn’t doing enough, that Smaug would catch him, that he’d catch _Thorin_ – the thought didn’t bear thinking about. It was enough to make his heart clench painfully in his chest.

He screwed his eyes shut against the thoughts swirling around his head. He and Thorin had journeyed back in silence, Bilbo too afraid to look at the other man and Thorin too embarrassed.

Bilbo wasn’t completely clueless, and that night in the Shire Thorin had claimed to love him. At the time Bilbo had thought it was simply words said in the heat of the moment; that Thorin had regretted giving into what he evidently saw as a weakness. He’d been angry and hurt, but it had made it easy to ignore his own feelings.

But now… he knew that Thorin at least regarded him highly. As a friend, as an ally; there was a tiny part of him that wondered if it was more – if that was why Thorin couldn’t bring himself to speak to him at all since – and an even tinier part of him that _wanted_ it to be more. Lady, if Bilbo was honest it was more than a tiny part but he had to ignore it, he had to lock it away and pretend it didn’t exist because it was _dangerous_ to feel these things, it _scared_ him. The last time he’d felt this strongly about someone had been Beregond, and Bilbo’s affection had got him killed.

It was safer for everyone if Bilbo ignored the treacherous part of him that loved Thorin Oakenshield.

 

*

 

“Where’s Fíli?” Kíli asked Bilbo, a frown on his forehead. “She said she’d come and help me with my bow.”

“Is she not with Éowyn?” Bilbo asked. The two girls had become fast friends, and it wasn’t unusual for Éowyn to be found sitting with Fíli in her room, giggling, or for Fíli to be up in the inn with Éowyn under Théoden’s strict supervision. It made Bilbo glad to see her being what she was: a teenage girl, with a friend her own age. Though poor Kíli didn’t seem to feel the same: whenever Éowyn was over, he’d traipse behind Bilbo looking lost and make a face when he told Bilbo why he wasn’t with his sister.

“No,” Kíli said. “I went and looked but Éowyn was sorting out the store room and Fíli wasn’t there.”

“Don’t you worry, Kíli,” Bilbo said. “No doubt she’s with Théoden. I’ll help you with your bow, if you like.” That made the lad’s face light up and Bilbo spent the afternoon up on the hill behind the Meduseld, the breeze that smelt of horse and hay blowing around them as he taught Kíli to take wind and movement into account when aiming. Éowyn came out to watch them, no doubt drawn by Kíli’s laughter, and after a while Bilbo left Kíli to go and sit beside the girl, watching as the lad practiced.

“I could teach you too, you know,” he said, noting the wistful look on her face. “Your uncle wouldn’t say no to you knowing how to defend yourself.”

“Fíli’s shown me her knives,” Éowyn said. “I wish I could fight.”

“I’ll speak to your uncle,” Bilbo said. “I can go now, if you like.”

Éowyn seemed to blush. “No, it’s alright. I’ll ask him tonight.”

“Are you sure? If we ask him now, I can teach you this afternoon.”

Éowyn shook her head, her cheeks definitely pink. Bilbo narrowed his eyes and stood up, making to head inside; Éowyn looked up at him with wide eyes.

“No!” she said, and looked thoroughly worried. “You can’t go in there!”

“Éowyn,” Bilbo said slowly, taking in her worried expression. “What are you hiding?”

“Nothing,” she said firmly, raising her chin.

“What’s going on?” Kíli asked, appearing beside Bilbo.

Bilbo crossed his arms and tried not to smile. “I think I’ve worked out where your sister’s got to, Kíli.”

Éowyn bit her lip then. “Don’t tell Uncle. Or Mister Thorin,” she whispered. “I told her I wouldn’t tell.”

Bilbo felt the corners of his mouth lifting. “Kíli, why don’t you show Éowyn how to hold your bow correctly. Don’t do anything more than that ‘til I come back, alright?” And with that he stepped past a red-faced Éowyn and headed into the inn.

It was quiet, after the lunch time rush and before the evening patrons started arriving. It wasn’t hard to spot Fíli.

She was sitting on one of the bar stools, a mug of something in front of her; she was leaning forward, deep in conversation with Éomer. The young man was listening to what she was saying, his eyes never leaving Fíli’s face as she gestured.

 Bilbo smiled and headed over to them on silent feet.

“I hope that’s not alcohol in there, Miss Fíli,” he said, slipping onto the stool beside her and making her jump in surprise; Éomer quickly straightened from where he’d been resting his elbows on the bar and started wiping it down with his cloth, determinedly avoiding looking at Fíli. “I’ll have an ale please, Éomer,” he said pleasantly and the young man turned to do as asked, a blush on his face.

“Bilbo,” Fíli said and Bilbo heard the nervousness in her voice. “What are you doing here?”

Bilbo nodded in thanks as Éomer set a mug down in front of him. “It’s thirsty work, helping Kíli with his bow. Especially when he spent a good while telling me how his sister abandoned him after promising to help him.” He looked at Fíli over the rim of his mug, eyebrows raised. She ducked her head, looking down.

“I forgot,” she said. “I’m very sorry, Mister Bilbo.” She glanced towards Éomer and immediately back down at the wooden bar, blushing. Bilbo chuckled and she lifted her head, eyes wide.

“Don’t worry, Fíli,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t blame you at all.”

She looked confused. “I’m not in trouble?”

Bilbo smiled and shook his head. “Not from me.”

“Are…” she hesitated, looking at him uncertainly. “Are you going to tell Uncle?”

“Should I not?” Bilbo asked, feigning ignorance.

“Oh, please don’t,” Fíli breathed, clutching his arm desperately. “He won’t understand, he’ll overreact – we’re just talking, that’s all–”

Bilbo smiled and covered her hand with his own. “He’ll hear nothing from me,” he reassured her. “So long as you’re careful, and don’t leave the inn.” He looked at Éomer sharply. “If anything happens to her, you’ll have Thorin Oakenshield to deal with – and I promise you, you don’t want that.”

Éomer ducked his head shyly. “I promise, sir,” he said, and his gaze fell on Fíli once more. “I promise I’ll look after her.”

Bilbo nodded, satisfied. “You will have to tell him eventually though, Fíli,” he said softly as Éomer was called over by another customer. “He’s your uncle, after all.”

Fíli rolled her eyes. “We’re just _talking,_ Bilbo,” she said. “It’s hardly that important.”

“Even so,” Bilbo said, taking another sip of ale. “If I’m right, you’d like to talk to Éomer a bit more, perhaps more than talk.” Fíli stared at her mug, her cheeks pink. “And then it does become Thorin’s concern.”

“What does he know,” Fíli muttered darkly.

“What does that mean?” Bilbo asked, surprised at the tone of Fíli’s voice. She looked up at him and bit her lip.

“Nothing,” she said hurriedly. “Nothing at all.”

“Maybe I should tell him after all,” Bilbo said, only half-joking, and Fíli looked stricken.

“No! I only meant – well,” Fíli couldn’t meet his eyes and was definitely blushing. “He – well – he’s a bit – he really likes you, Bilbo,” she said in a rush, still avoiding his eyes. “He’s stupid if he thinks no-one’s noticed.”

Bilbo froze at her words, his knuckles white as he gripped his mug. Yavanna above, where on earth had Fíli got that from? Was… was she right? He shook his head vehemently and forced himself to give a chuckle, hoping it sounded unconcerned.

“No, Fíli,” he said, patting her hand. “Your uncle and I are only friends. That’s all.”

“If you say so, Mister Bilbo,” she said sweetly. He was vaguely perturbed by that. “So you’re not going to tell him about me and Éomer?”

“Uh – no,” Bilbo said distractedly, feeling distinctly uncomfortable all of a sudden under Fíli’s shrewd gaze. It was if she saw right through him, saw the truth behind his words; she was so much like her mother. Dís had the same unsettling ability to apparently see his feelings like that. “I won’t tell him.”

And he hurried out of the inn to go and help Kíli teach Éowyn to use a bow, hoping he didn’t look as disconcerted as he felt.

It was only later that evening when he returned to their quarters from speaking to Théoden about teaching Éowyn to fight and Fíli shot him a brilliant smile from where she was sitting next to Ori that Bilbo realised–

Fíli had _blackmailed_ him. He shook his head, a smile forming on his lips. Dís would be so proud.

 

*

 

Bilbo ventured out into the city for the next few days, observing each district. After the guards had rallied there’d been no more outright rioting, but the brewing resentment continued to grow and there were sometimes isolated altercations which were swiftly dealt with.

What made Bilbo’s heart race faster and fill with hope was the way the Templar nobles had started to leave the city. It wasn’t an exodus as such, but in the three days that followed the riot in the Greenwood, seven nobles had packed up and left, leaving guards posted outside their houses to protect it so they could return when things died down.

Though Bilbo was hopeful they wouldn’t die down, not until Smaug was dead.

He’d been to see him at the end of the third day, dread making each step a mammoth effort and it taking all his willpower not to turn tail and run.

But he was a Baggins of Bag End, and he’d forced himself forward.

Smaug had smiled cruelly when he’d finally appeared in the antechamber, this time leaving Bilbo alone in the blood red room for a full ten minutes. Bilbo had nearly been sick the entire time he was forced to wait.

Smaug had been furious – pacing the room wrathfully, his eyes flashing with angry fire as he railed against the cowardice of his Templars, deserting the city as soon as they caught the first whiff of danger. Bilbo had convinced him of the Sons’ innocence, though that had made Smaug give that cruel smile again.

He shivered just to think of it, how Smaug had whispered in his ear, almost uninterested in what Bilbo had to say, even when Bilbo had played to his narcissistic side and offered reassurances of his continued power in an effort to placate him.

 _You have nice manners, for a thief and liar,_ Smaug had laughed, his breath hot on Bilbo’s ear and body too close. He’d made Bilbo shed his cloak again, and the feverish heat from his body had made Bilbo feel cold in comparison. _Perhaps when I’ve killed Oakenshield, I’ll keep you as my pet instead of his._

_Wait until he finds out what you’ve done, little thief, skulking about in the shadows._

_Do you still love him, burglar? His death will be a kindness, far kinder than the madness that waits for him._

_Perhaps our little game should end here...next time, bring me Oakenshield._

Bilbo hadn’t had the courage to ask Thorin about the Arkenstone, though it had featured in the nightmares he’d had on the rare occasions sleep had come to him. Always they revolved around that stone, Thorin calling his name and Smaug’s cruel laughter before there was fire and Bilbo would wake in a cold sweat, his scars prickling.

The cuts Smaug had made had healed, leaving new scars on top of the old – thick white lines marring the already mottled skin. When he touched them he felt nothing.

Perhaps the reason Bilbo hadn’t asked was because he dreaded knowing the answer. _A weakness for gold_ , Smaug had said, _madness_ and _corruption –_ Bilbo was afraid of what Thorin might say.

So like the coward he was he didn’t say anything, kept his fears to himself and was grateful that in the privacy of his chamber there was no-one to wake with his night terrors.

 

*

 

He’d been woken by the dream again, though this time Thorin had been slipping away from him, as if he was falling, and Bilbo couldn’t reach him, couldn’t stop him, as Smaug’s laughter continued to echo around them until he’d woken up, shirt damp with cold sweat.

He lay on the bed for a while, trying to calm his breathing. He didn’t know what time it was, but judging from the absolute silence of deep sleep that blanketed the quarters, Bilbo was sure it was the small hours of the morning, perhaps two or three; a few hours yet ‘til sunrise.

When his breathing had returned to normal he moved to get up; he’d get a drink of water, perhaps see if there was some bread he could eat to settle his stomach. He wouldn’t get to sleep again – and even if he could, he wasn’t sure he wanted to, not if it meant another nightmare.

He tiptoed through the tunnel until he reached the living quarters; the fire hadn’t been banked, which surprised him, but he didn’t move to do it right then, grateful for the extra light it gave since the torches were near burnt out too.

He stepped into the room and moved to get some water.

“Can’t sleep either?”

Bilbo whirled around in shock, his heart in his throat before he recognised Bofur’s rough brogue and the silhouette of his hat as he peered around the back of the chair he sat in.

“Bofur,” Bilbo said, resting a hand on his heart, still beating uncomfortably fast. “What are you doing there?”

Bofur shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Bilbo let out a breath and finished getting his mug of water before going and sitting in the chair beside Bofur.

“Why can’t you sleep?” he asked and Bofur made a face.

“I suppose I’m worried,” he said, looking down at his hands; Bilbo followed his gaze and saw he was holding a small block of wood and a carving knife, wood shavings sitting in his lap. “I worry about what’s going to happen.”

Bilbo pointed to the block of wood in his hands. “What are you doing there?”

“Hm? Oh, this. I’m carving. You know I used to be a toy-maker, before.”

“I remember,” Bilbo said. “So what’s that going to be?”

“Nothin’ special,” Bofur said. “Just a little figurine for Éowyn. She an’ Fíli have become friends an’ I thought I’d make her somethin’. I’ve already made one for Fíli an’ Kíli.”

He set aside the block and knife for a moment and reached down to the floor, bringing up two little wooden figurines and handing them to Bilbo, who took them carefully.

“Bofur,” he breathed. “These are wonderful.” He held them up closer, taking in the fine detail of them. “Though they look like…”

“Aye, that one’s one you,” Bofur chuckled. Bofur had captured the curls of his hair, the folds of his cloak, the crossbow at his hip; the other figurine was evidently Thorin, complete with furred hood and braids in his long hair. Bilbo felt his throat close up for a moment.

“You made one of me,” he said, half disbelieving though he was holding the proof in his hands.

“Of course,” Bofur said cheerfully. “Those kids love you, Bilbo. Kíli’s never met anyone as good with a crossbow as you, and Fíli – you listen to her. She loves you for that.”

Bilbo couldn’t speak for a long moment; he handed the figurines back to Bofur. “They’re good kids,” he said eventually.

“They’re no’ the only ones who love you,” Bofur said quietly, not quite meeting Bilbo’s gaze as Bilbo looked at him in surprise. “I know you have your Children back in the Shire, I know that’s where your heart is. But we’ve had lots o’ time to think – heck, that’s all we seem to do – and I know that every Son here considers you one of us. You don’t have to feel the same, but you’re family now.” He glanced away. “That’s all I wanted to say.”

Bilbo’s heart swelled painfully. “Bofur. I’m so fond of all of you. I – I’m honoured to be one of you.”

Bofur smiled, a wide grin so bright Bilbo couldn’t help but smile himself.

“We’re so grateful you chose to help us,” he said. “More than you can know.”

Bilbo shook his head. “I’d do it all over again, you know.”

They sat in silence for a while, Bofur going back to his carving while Bilbo watched him, feeling the last vestiges of the fear that had gripped him since he woke from the nightmare falling away. He felt at ease with Bofur; he didn’t have to say anything, do anything, or pretend, and he was grateful for it.

“Oh, tha’ reminds me,” Bofur said, setting down his tools again. “I have something for ye.” He reached into his tunic pocket and pulled something out, cupping it in his palm and holding it out to Bilbo. Bilbo accepted it hesitantly, feeling something smooth; as he brought it closer he saw it was an acorn – a _carved_ acorn, the wood soft against the skin of his hands and startlingly lifelike.

“Bofur,” Bilbo said, emotion constricting his throat once again. “You made this for me?”

“I saw yer oak tree in yer garden,” Bofur replied. “It’s nothin’ special, but maybe when this is all over, when you go back to the Shire… maybe ye’ll think of us when you see it.”

Bilbo closed his hand around it. “Thank you,” he said thickly, and he slipped the little wooden acorn into his pouch. Bofur smiled, his brown eyes warm, and they went back to sitting in silence, the only sound the soft crackle of the fire and the scratching of Bofur’s knife against the wood.

“So anyway,” Bofur said after a while. “Why are _you_ up? It’s no’ often I have company at this time o’ night.”

Bilbo gave a wry smile. “I guess I’m worried. Like you.”

“Thorin thinks we can do this.”

Bilbo tried not to let his breath catch at the mention of Thorin’s name. “He may be right,” he said. “I _want_ him to be right. But I don’t know, Bofur. I know how much this means to you all, to Thorin…”

“He trusts you, Bilbo.”

“I know.” Oh, Bilbo knew, and how it hurt to know it.

Bofur glanced at him then. “An’ if I know ‘im at all, I’d say his regard for ye is slightly more than simple trust.” Bilbo looked away, not wanting Bofur to see his own feelings in his eyes. “I think he’s in love with ye, Bilbo.”

“No he’s not,” Bilbo said, hoping he sounded sure of himself and not as if he was about to burst into tears, which was how he felt. “It would be a foolish thing to do. Thorin Oakenshield sees me as an ally and nothing more, Bofur. Which is as I see him.” He brushed his cloak free from non-existent lint.

“Why are ye so determined no’ to see it?” Bofur asked quietly. “You know he regards you highly, and anyone can see you do too–”

“Because I can’t, Bofur, don’t you see?” Bilbo said, cutting him off and fisting his cloak in his hands. “I just _can’t_. Please, don’t push this.”

Bofur looked at him with his wide eyes for a long moment before going back to his carving. “Aye,” he said eventually. “I understand.”

They sat like that for a little while longer, Bilbo watching as the fire got lower and lower until he headed back to his own room, the weight of the acorn sitting in his pouch and his heart strangely lighter than it had been when he’d lain down to sleep the night before.

 

*

 

The city had reached its peak; a fragile sort of equilibrium, one that was ready to shatter at any moment. Smaug and his Templars had shown that they were willing to use whatever violence was necessary, which had dampened the spirit of the city somewhat, but not enough to stop the people voicing their displeasure at this power. It was a stalemate, neither quite ready to make the last move, and it would only take something small to send this peace tumbling and descending into violence and chaos. They just had to make sure that when it _did_ happen, it was on their terms.

They needed Azog to act – with his soldiers in the city, they had the element of surprise still and had a good chance of winning if it came to a riot, but for some reason Azog hadn’t leapt to press his advantage.

It wasn’t enough.

Bilbo hurried through the streets towards Azog’s mansion. He was going to find out the reason for the man’s hesitance and urge him to act.

Azog seemed surprised yet glad to see him, which took Bilbo aback slightly. He still felt uncomfortable whenever he had to see the man, his scarred face unsettling.

“Master Baggins,” Azog said as Bilbo was shown in. “I was about to send word to you.”

“You were?” Bilbo asked, taking in Azog’s finery. He was in a jerkin of purple velvet, his Templar cross set with a ruby glittering on his breast. Bilbo narrowed his eyes at the sight. “What about?”

“Smaug has sent for me.”

“Smaug? What for?” Bilbo couldn’t help the momentary stab of panic that flowed through him,

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Azog said. “He’s scared and he wants to discuss my plans for the Watch.”

“You’re going to the Lonely Tower?”

Azog gave a cruel smile. “No. we’re meeting in Ravenhill.”

Ravenhill was a stretch of land just across the River Running, opposite the Tower. It had once been the site of the followers of Glaurung, but when the White Council had come to power they’d dissolved the following and the temple had been forgotten, sitting empty and beginning to crumble.

“Why Ravenhill?” Bilbo asked doubtfully.

“We often go there when he wishes to talk,” Azog said with distaste. “And foolish of him, too. This time my soldiers will be with me, and he’s going to die tonight.”

Bilbo’s heart was in his mouth. “Do you really think you’ll manage it?”

Azog snorted. “He trusts me like he trusts no-one else. I’m the only one who’s stuck by him through the years. But finally,” a sneer curled his mouth, “his usefulness to me is finished.”

Bilbo felt a frisson of fear. “What are your plans, Azog?” he demanded. “Once he’s dead, what are you going to do?”

Azog gave a laugh then, dark and humourless. “I’ve no desire to rule this cesspit of a city, Master Baggins. I just want the bastard dead.” With that he pushed past Bilbo towards the door, indicating their conversation was over. “I’ll send word when it’s done. And then hopefully we’ll never have to see each other again. Do pass on my _regards_ to Thorin Oakenshield and especially to his sister, won’t you?”

And then he left, leaving Bilbo to be led out by the silent butler.

Bilbo decided to follow Azog; he tailed his carriage as it made its way through the streets of the Citadel towards the Lonely Tower. The Citadel was in a state of panic – most of the Templars had either fled or had hidden themselves in their mansions, preparing to wait out the worst of it – and the streets were quiet, so Bilbo followed from the rooftops, leaping silently across the red slate roofs. The bridge that led across the river to the walled garden of Ravenhill was too heavily guarded, since it was so close to the Tower, so Bilbo took a different route through the sewers and surfaced on the other side. He saw Azog’s carriage waiting outside the entrance to the garden, the other man not inside.

Quickly he scaled the wall of the garden and, once he’d made sure there were no guards around to see him, he dropped down and hid in the foliage.

There were low walls running through the garden, and the shadowy remains of what had been the temple and its functional buildings. Bilbo stuck to the shadows, holding his breath every time one of Smaug’s patrolling guards passed uncomfortably close. He could hear Smaug’s voice coming from inside the temple; when none of the guards were looking in his direction he quickly climbed the nearest tree with branches sturdy enough to hold him and which afforded a view of the inside of the temple, its branches waving through what remained of the stained glass window.

“The city is turning against me,” Smaug was saying. Bilbo watched and listened from his perch up in the tree, gently swaying in the evening breeze. “You’ve seen how the Templars are fleeing like rats.”

“They’re cowards,” came Azog’s voice. Bilbo could see them standing towards the northern edge of the temple, near the block of stone that had been the altar and was now lit with a hundred candles. The rest of the temple was in darkness. Bilbo could see two of Azog’s men standing near him as his bodyguards, the other two by the door next to two of Smaug’s, whose golden helmets flashed in the light from the candles.

Smaug was pacing, his movements smooth and reptilian even in his agitation; before him Azog was as still as stone.

“But you are not, my lord,” Azog continued. “You know you are stronger than these misguided, foolish rebels.” Bilbo found Azog was very convincing – what if he’d duped them? What if he wasn’t going to kill Smaug at all, but instead was going to hand them over–? “These rebels and the Durin vermin stirring them up.”

Smaug paused in his pacing. “You believe it is the Durins causing this?” Smaug asked, looking at Azog with an unreadable expression on his face.

“I’m sure of it, my lord. Who else can it be?”

“Who else indeed,” Smaug said. “How can you be sure? After all, you still haven’t been able to find them, after twelve years. How can I trust your judgment, Azog?”

Bilbo’s stomach was clenching painfully. Azog should act _now_ , stop trying to outwit Smaug – Smaug was unnaturally sharp, and Azog had no chance of winning these subtle word games with him.

“The Durin scum will be found and killed,” Azog said stonily. “I just need more time.”

“You’ve had plenty of time,” Smaug said, his voice suddenly silky and Bilbo had to shuffle closer to hear properly. “I think you’re lying.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, my lord.”

“No?” Smaug’s voice echoed off the walls.

“I’m your loyal servant. I’ve been the only one to stay by your side since the beginning, the only one who’s never deserted you.”

Smaug gave a laugh, and Bilbo’s limbs turned to lead.

_He knew._

“My loyal servant, whose only wish is to serve me, who would never betray me?”

“Of course.”

“How strange,” Smaug said, resuming his pacing all of a sudden. “If our friend Rukhun is to be believed... _you’re lying._ You’re planning on betraying me.”

“No,” Azog said and Bilbo heard the slight hint of fear in his voice – if he’d picked up on it, there was no doubt that Smaug would have too. Why didn’t Azog just _do it –_ what was he waiting for?

“I think _yes_ ,” Smaug said. “It’s you who’s been rabble-rousing, inciting the riots. You came here to kill me, didn’t you?”

Bilbo was frozen in place, and judging from the looks of it so was Azog. This couldn’t be happening – they’d been so careful – Rukhun would die for this, Bilbo would make sure of it.

“No,” Azog was protesting and Bilbo wanted to scream at him to _get it over with –_ he’d probably be killed but he was going to die anyway, there was no way Smaug would let him live after he’d betrayed him – if he could take Smaug out surely it was worth it–

Bilbo could hear the fear sharp in Azog’s voice as he protested his innocence. Would he rat them out? Would he tell Smaug of Bilbo and the Sons’ involvement?

Smaug was circling Azog now, his movements predatory. He flicked his wrist and suddenly two more guards appeared from the shadow behind the altar; before either Azog or his men could react they’d slit the throats of Azog’s bodyguards, making the scarred man turn pale as their blood splashed onto his fine purple velvet. They heard cries and the two of Azog’s men by the door were falling to the ground too, the floor wet with their blood.

Smaug’s guards approached Azog now, forcing him to his knees and holding their bloodied knives to his throat. Azog’s face was icy white now, his eyes wide, but hatred burned in them as he looked at Smaug.

“You may not have killed my son yourself, but you left him for dead,” he spat.

“Your son was a good-for-nothing man-whore,” Smaug said coldly. One of his hands came up to rest on Azog’s scarred cheek, but Azog jerked his head away; Smaug brought his hand back and wiped it on his robe as if he’d touched something dirty. “But I was prepared to forgive his failures, since you were so loyal to me… Now you can join him in whatever hell you end up in.”

Azog said nothing, but Bilbo could see the tension in his shoulders.

“You deserve to lose this city,” he said then. “I hope it burns, and you along with it.”

Smaug only laughed. “What a shame you won’t be around to see me keep it,” he said, stepping back. He turned to his guards. “Kill him.”

The guard holding Azog moved his arm and suddenly there was red everywhere and Azog’s body jerked once before falling forwards with a sickly wet thud.

Bilbo shut his eyes, disbelief coursing through him and a wave of fear quickly catching up.

He needed to get out of there now.

_How could Azog be dead?_

He backed away into the shelter of the branches, planning on making his escape through the tree cover until he could get to the wall, over and away; as he was making a jump his cloak caught on a branch and for a sickening moment he was lurching through emptiness, a branch snapping loudly, before he managed to right himself and landed on the ground, falling into a crouch.

“What was that?” Smaug’s voice sounded from the old temple. Bilbo didn’t hesitate; he took off at a sprint through the garden and over the low walls, dodging the guards who tried to grab him as he passed. Suddenly he felt a sharp stabbing pain shoot up through his right leg and he faltered, tumbling to the ground; a throwing knife was sticking out of his calf. Feeling sick, he pulled it out and clamped a hand down over the wound; forcing himself to his feet, he stumbled onwards before the guards could get to him. The wall was so close, if he could just get to it–

A guard was nearing and Bilbo pulled out his crossbow just in time, managing to send him sprawling to the ground with a bolt in his neck; two more guards appeared and he shot at them, but they managed to dodge the bolts. His leg was trembling beneath him, his breeches wet with his own blood, and with shaking hands Bilbo loaded up two more rounds and shot them again. This time he caught one, who fell to the ground, but the other again dodged, reaching Bilbo and knocking the bow out of his hands with his sword.

He swung at Bilbo, who just managed to dodge the strike as he backed away towards the nearest tree – if he could get up into the branches, he’d have a chance–

The guard swung at him again and Bilbo swirled out of the way but a searing pain across his ribs told him the sword had caught him, slicing across his side. Bilbo cried out in pain; as even more guards came running he felt the rough bark of the tree behind him with relief. Breathing hard and ignoring the pain of his leg and side, he darted around behind the tree and swung himself up, using what strength he had left, causing the guards below to cry out angrily.

Blindly he leapt – or rather fell – from the tree onto the other side of the wall, landing heavily and stumbling to his knees. His side was burning with every breath but he couldn’t stop, he had to get away; it wouldn’t take long for the guards to get out of the garden and find him, lying here–

He got to his feet and ignored the pain, limping to the sewers where he could travel underground back to Rohan.

He was blind in the darkness but somehow he made it back, his breeches black with blood and sticking to his leg, his side so painful it was almost numb.

He collapsed with relief when he reached their quarters, the torches throwing his pale face and the blood on his clothes into relief; he was too exhausted and numb with disbelief to move.

He was just aware of someone coming out into the corridor to investigate the noise before he was being lifted by strong arms that were strangely gentle, Dori’s voice filled with worry as he called Óin.

 

***

 

Thorin was in his chamber smoking his pipe when he heard the commotion outside. He lifted his head from where he’d been staring into the flame of the torch on the wall, removing the pipe from his mouth.

There was a knock at his door a moment later and Balin’s face appeared, tight with worry.

“Bilbo’s back,” he said.

Thorin immediately sat up. “Is he alright?”

Balin shook his head and Thorin stood, striding to the door. Balin hesitated a moment. “He asked not to see you. Just until after Óin’s finished tending his wounds.” He sounded apologetic and Thorin felt a spike of worry.

“I need to see him, Balin,” he said; Balin just gave another shake of his head, as if despairing of Thorin’s stubbornness.

“You’ll tell him I tried to stop you, then,” he said and Thorin hurried out of his chamber. He didn’t bother knocking, just pushed open Bilbo’s door and stepped inside.

He found Bilbo sitting up in bed, his face white as a sheet, his leg stretched out in front of him and his shirt on the floor beside Óin. Thorin’s throat dried at the sight of the gash on Bilbo’s right side.

“I thought I told Balin not to let you in here,” Bilbo said, still managing to sound annoyed even with his side cut open.

“He didn’t,” Thorin said. “I came in anyway.”

“Knew he should have locked the door,” Bilbo muttered. He let out a hiss as Óin cleaned the wound on his leg and tutted loudly.

“Leave us please, Óin,” Thorin said. Bilbo shot him an angry look and Óin looked at him uncertainly.

“I need to finish sorting the lad’s injuries,” he said.

“I said leave us.” Thorin didn’t mean to be so curt, but seeing Bilbo hurt made him abrupt with worry. Óin let out a huff, just to make sure Thorin knew he wasn’t pleased, and got up.

“You make sure those get cleaned up and sorted or we’ll be having words,” he said, levelling a look at Thorin before walking to the door and shutting it behind him. Thorin moved to Óin’s vacated seat, his eyes trailing over the wounds, assessing the damage.

“I said I’d see you afterwards,” Bilbo said, breaking the silence, and Thorin looked up at him, but Bilbo was staring resolutely ahead.

“I know,” Thorin said. “But I had to make sure you weren’t – weren’t too badly hurt.”

“No, I’m right as rain,” Bilbo said, his voice loaded with sarcasm, and Thorin dropped his eyes to look at the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Bilbo sighed.

“I’d be doing much better if you’d just let Óin finish,” he said, his voice softer.

Thorin remembered that voice being the only thing keeping him from slipping into the darkness of unconsciousness in the agonising hours after the assassination attempt on Elrond; how that voice had soothed and gentled him as cool hands had tended to him. How Bilbo’s voice had come so close to breaking and Thorin had felt safe as soon as he’d heard him in the tunnels. The voice which had brought him reassurance on so many occasions before.

“Let me do this,” Thorin urged him. Bilbo had his eyes screwed shut, though whether at Thorin’s words or at the pain of his wounds Thorin wasn’t sure.

“You need to clean it,” Bilbo said shortly. “Óin already did the one on my leg.”

Thorin picked up the bowl of steaming water that sat on a stool beside him; it was already red, and it stank of vinegar. He gently sponged the wound down, hesitating when Bilbo flinched and let out a hiss but pressing on when he didn’t say anything. The skin was raw and red, though at least it had stopped bleeding.

“It’s going to scar,” Thorin said quietly, more to himself than anything, and Bilbo let out a small huff.

“A scar on my right side to go with the one on my left,” he said wryly. Thorin didn’t respond to that, only carried on gently sponging away the blood from the tender skin. He heard Bilbo sigh. “Azog’s dead,” Bilbo said into the silence.

Thorin froze in the middle of cleaning the wound. “Azog? How? Why?”

“Smaug knew.”

Thorin set the bowl of water down a little more sharply than he’d meant to. “Smaug.” His insides felt cold.

“Rukhun told him.” Bilbo placed a hand on Thorin’s arm when he let out a growl. “Please. I’ll tell you more tomorrow. I can’t bear to think of it now. He slit his throat – the blood–”

Thorin placed his other hand on top of Bilbo’s gripping it tightly as he made gentling noises, as he did when Fíli and Kíli used to wake with night terrors. “You don’t have to,” he said softly. “Don’t think on it, Bilbo. Stay calm. Rest.”

Bilbo nodded and let go of Thorin’s arm, glancing down at it as if he’d forgotten his hand was there, and Thorin quickly let go as well, turning away to find the ointment that was next step. He needed to focus on his job.

He picked up the jar and began rubbing it into the skin around the gash. He forced himself to focus on the task at hand and only the task, and definitely not notice the way the hairs on Bilbo’s arm were standing on end, how he wore no shirt; he swallowed around the lump in his suddenly dry throat and moved to do the same to the skin around the wound on Bilbo’s calf. His leg was trembling and without thinking Thorin curled his hand around it, his fingers resting on the uninjured skin and thumb hooking round his ankle; Bilbo’s breath seemed to hitch but the trembling stopped.

Thorin realised what he was doing and abruptly let go, turning to reach for the pile of bandages so that he didn’t have to look at Bilbo’s face. He worked clinically as he attached the bandage, limiting how much his skin came into contact with Bilbo’s; he wondered if it left the same trails of fire on Bilbo’s skin as it did on his.

Thorin turned to attach the bandage to Bilbo’s torso, hesitating just for a moment before forcing himself to move.

“Arms up,” he said softly, hoping his voice didn’t sound as hoarse as he thought it did, and Bilbo complied, though he stared straight ahead of him and didn’t look at Thorin. Thorin began to wrap the bandage tightly around his ribs, making sure he covered the whole of the wound. His fingers brushed the scarred skin of the left side of Bilbo’s back as he worked and the Child didn’t even flinch.

Almost without meaning to, Thorin let his fingers trail across it again – just for a moment – to see if Bilbo reacted, but he frowned when he felt a small bump, a ridge on Bilbo’s skin that shouldn’t be there. Thorin’s hands had run down this back many times _that_ night in the Shire – he’d mapped out Bilbo’s scars with his hands and memorised every inch of his skin. That bump hadn’t been there.

He coaxed Bilbo forwards so he could see and the Child looked confused at Thorin’s hand on his back but he complied.

Thorin felt something settle heavy in his gut when he saw what it was. There were new scars down Bilbo’s back, thick white lines across the old scarring.

“Bilbo,” he said in a low voice.

Bilbo immediately leant back, blocking his back from view.

“Pass me my shirt,” he said then, bringing his arms to block his chest from view but not before Thorin had seen another new scar on Bilbo’s breast, just before his nipple; there was one on his shoulder too.

Thorin pulled Bilbo’s hands away, the strange sick feeling rising in his gorge as he looked at the scars. These weren’t just cuts he’d got accidentally; someone had _given_ him these–

Bilbo pulled his hand away from Thorin’s sharply, rubbing at his wrist and Thorin noticed the faint shadow of a bruise that still lingered, a circlet of fading yellow under the skin. He noticed a matching one on his upper arm, this one still the deep purple of a recent bruise.

“What happened?” Thorin demanded, his voice rising slightly as he took in the bruises, the scarring; Bilbo didn’t look at him but sat with a clenched jaw.

“Will you pass me my shirt, Thorin,” he said stonily.

“ _What happened?”_ Thorin asked again, more urgently this time. Bilbo shut his eyes and turned his head away. Thorin wanted to grab his shoulders, force him to look at him, but he didn’t. He clenched and unclenched his fists, protectiveness and a small measure of possessiveness kicking in. The thought of someone deliberately cutting Bilbo’s skin – being close enough and sick enough to do that – made him feel nauseous. “You’re _injured_. You have these new scars on your skin – bruises on your wrist and your arm – you came back beaten up after you went home to the Shire – what’s happening to you? Who’s been doing this–?”

“What’s the Arkenstone?” Bilbo blurted out, catching Thorin off guard. Thorin sat back down heavily, the question leaving him winded.

“What?”

“The Arkenstone,” Bilbo repeated, his eyes hard as he watched Thorin. “What is it?”

“How did you…” Thorin trailed off, running a hand through his hair distractedly. “Did one of the others mention it to you?”

Bilbo shrugged.

“You shouldn’t know about that,” Thorin said. “No-one was supposed to know.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo said and his tone was sharp, bringing Thorin’s attention back to him. “Tell me what it is.”

Thorin felt panic rise in him – there was a reason they’d kept it a secret; if he told Bilbo now, it might ruin everything… but Bilbo was staring at him with his jaw set in determination and Thorin let out a shuddering breath.

“It’s a stone,” he said slowly, staring at the wall. He swallowed. “A gem – a priceless one. It was in my family for two centuries.” he glanced at Bilbo, who was looking at him with wide eyes. “My ancestor won it in a game of dice, as fairly as you can win a gamble. The man who lost it to my family was Smaug’s ancestor.” Bilbo let out a little gasp, stifled as soon as it was released. “He couldn’t believe he’d managed to lose his family’s greatest heirloom in a game of dice, and he denounced my ancestor as a liar, as a cheat. A madman.

“Of course it wasn’t true, but since the Arkenstone came to be in our possession, there has been… a strain of weakness in my family.” His voice caught and he swallowed. “Some call it madness, some obsession. Whatever it is, it led my father and my grandfather to become greedy, seeking always more wealth, and it paved the way for Smaug to bring us down as he did, taking the Arkenstone back with him.”

“He killed your grandfather and threw your father in prison,” Bilbo said softly and Thorin couldn’t bear to look at him.

“He said unspeakable things about them, spreading lies so that none would think about helping us, and then declaring war against us when we tried to fight back. All because he thought the Arkenstone was his by rights.” Thorin couldn’t stop the curl of his lips and the derision that entered his voice then. “He lost any rights to that Stone the day his ancestor lost it in that game of dice, and yet here we are.”

He looked down at his hands, feeling the aching loss of his father, his grandfather and brother, and still coils of anger flickered along his spine.

“And what if he offered it to you?” Bilbo said, his voice quiet. Thorin snapped his head up to look at him. “If Smaug offered you the Arkenstone. Would you want it back?”

The Arkenstone had been the pride of the House of Durin, had been a symbol for their wealth and innovation, their progress and riches. To have the Arkenstone back would be symbolic; a sign of the new lives they could build for themselves.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice hoarse.

…Because Thorin remembered the fevered light in his grandfather’s eyes whenever he visited the mines, the way he’d often forget things and instead would spend his days locked in his study with the Arkenstone and the coffers. It filled Thorin with a sense of unease.

“I don’t know,” he said again, as he stared at his hands.

There was silence for a few long moments, Thorin unable to bring himself to look up and face Bilbo, see the distaste, the contempt that would be showing on his face.

“Please pass me my shirt,” Bilbo said in a whisper. He’d brought his hands up in a shield across his chest again and he was avoiding looking at Thorin.

“Bilbo–”

“Please,” Bilbo said, pained. “My shirt.” Thorin reached for the clean shirt that lay on the chair beside him and handed it to Bilbo, who took it from him without removing his arms from their defensive position across his body. Thorin _knew_ it had been a bad idea to tell him; Bilbo couldn’t meet his eye. Thorin stood and turned towards the door.

“I’ll send Óin in,” he said in a low voice as he reached for the door handle. He waited for Bilbo to say something, anything, just wanting to hear his voice; but there was nothing. He screwed his eyes shut in pain just for a second before pulling the door open vehemently and stepping out into the corridor.

           

***

 

_Watch as Oakenshield suffers… as it corrupts his heart and drives him mad–_

_–Thorin’s eyes shining sickly bright, a feverish shine to them–_

_He is using you… you are only a means to an end–_

_–Thorin turning from him, his gaze fixed on the stone cradled against his chest, glowing softly as the darkness creeps up around him, smothers him until he’s falling, falling and there’s pain in his chest and the salty iron tang of blood–_

_You really are my creature._

_–and he’s crying out, terror coursing through him–_

“You’re alright my lad,” Bilbo heard the familiar voice cutting through the nightmares and he wrenched his eyes open, breathing in air in great gulps and letting it out in shuddering breaths, grateful for the light after the encroaching darkness in the nightmare.

Once he was aware enough of his surroundings to realise he wasn’t in the dream anymore, he blinked blearily, trying to focus on the face that was peering down at him and gripping his shoulder tightly.

“Gandalf?” he said questioningly, though there was no doubt it was him, his grey beard and twinkling blue eyes the same as ever.

“Indeed,” he said, and just his voice brought Bilbo comfort. “You’ve been in the wars, young man.”

“How did you know?” Bilbo asked, moving to sit up and letting Gandalf help him, adjusting his pillows so he could sit more comfortably.

“I always know,” Gandalf said, his eyes glinting with mirth, before his expression turned serious. “Truthfully, it’s purely coincidence, and one I’m sorry is under such circumstances.”

“I’m glad to see you again Gandalf,” Bilbo said, his hand coming up to grip Gandalf’s where it still rested on his shoulder. “It feels like an Age since we saw you last.”

They were interrupted then by Óin bringing Bilbo a bowl of broth before leaving them to it. Gandalf wouldn’t tell Bilbo what he’d been up to, saying it was safer he didn’t know. He’d been hearing troubling things – rumours of something stirring trouble in the east – and asked Bilbo about their progress. He was worried by the news of Azog’s death and even more so by the news it was Smaug who’d killed him, but was optimistic when he heard about Azog’s soldiers and the riots.

After a while they spoke of nicer things – Gandalf had checked in on the Shire before coming to Arda and reassured Bilbo that all was well there, telling him of little Frodo’s latest antics and how Lobelia was flourishing in her position. It gladdened Bilbo’s heart to hear good news and lifted some of the weight that seemed to permanently sit on his chest, guilt and worry making it hard to breathe sometimes.

Gandalf didn’t seem to notice anything suspicious in Bilbo’s behaviour – or if he did, he put it down to the fact he was injured and had been plied with poppy milk to help him sleep. Bilbo desperately wanted to tell Gandalf about Smaug – to rid himself of the secret, of the way he felt sullied even when he wasn’t near Smaug and more than anything he wanted Gandalf to reassure him, to tell him he’d done the right thing.

Throughout the rest of Gandalf’s visit, Bilbo tried to work out how best to tell him; suddenly the old man was picking up his staff and making to stand and Bilbo panicked, his heart in his mouth.

“Wait, Gandalf,” he said a little breathlessly; Gandalf paused and looked at him.

“Yes, my boy?”

“I wanted to tell you something.” Bilbo bit his lip.

Gandalf was looking at him with interest, his blue eyes so bright and kind. “What did you want to tell me, Bilbo?”

“I… I want to tell you that I – I–” Gandalf’s expression was encouraging. How could Bilbo tell him? He’d betrayed Gandalf by entering into this accord with Smaug, unwilling or not; Gandalf would hate him for it. He’d tell Thorin and Balin and all the other Sons – tell them what a traitor he was – they’d want nothing more to do with him and Bofur would take back that acorn and he’d never see them again – never see _Thorin_ again – He couldn’t tell him. “I want you to know that I think we can do this,” he finished lamely.

Gandalf’s gaze was shrewd as he examined Bilbo, looking at him searchingly.

“Is that all you wanted to tell me, Bilbo?” he said quietly.

Again Bilbo nearly told him, nearly let it all spill out, but again he stopped himself.

“Yes. Yes, it is,” he said, screwing his eyes shut a moment.

Gandalf looked at him for another long moment before he patted Bilbo’s hand and stood.

“Goodbye, Bilbo. I’ll see you again soon.”

As the door shut behind him, Bilbo was left with only his thoughts for company. They weren’t the best company but they were far better than the nightmares he’d been having; he’d tell Óin not to give him any more poppy milk. He’d rather be awake and able to fight the images clamouring in his mind than be sleeping and vulnerable to them.

As usual his mind strayed to Thorin and he felt the accompanying knots in his stomach.

He hadn’t seen Thorin since he’d asked about the Arkenstone, since Thorin had seen the scars Smaug had left on his skin. They were ugly things, the scar tissue healing clumsily over the already damaged skin. He was glad he couldn’t see them. He didn’t want to think about how Thorin thought he’d got them; he didn’t really want to think about Thorin at all but he couldn’t _not._

The Arkenstone was evil, of that much Bilbo was sure. It had driven Thorin’s family mad, it was the cause of the feud and the conflict between Thorin and Smaug, the root of the evil that had plagued the city for the last fifteen long years. Even Bilbo had felt its power and the way it had drawn him in, its innocent beauty deceptive and cruel.

That stone needed to die with Smaug – and yet.

 _I don’t know_ , Thorin had said. _I don’t know._

Despite the evil contained in the shimmering depths of the stone, despite the fact his grandfather, his father – his _brother –_ were all dead because of it, Thorin still wanted it back. Was Smaug right? Would Thorin give up and let Smaug live, sacrifice Bilbo, if it meant he could once again possess the Arkenstone?

Bilbo felt a shiver run down his spine at the thought.

Whatever happened, he’d have to make sure that Thorin never got his hands on that stone. Bilbo would do whatever it took to prevent Thorin succumbing to the same thing as his forebears; but in the meantime he was more than happy not to see the man. Part of him was afraid of him, afraid of the Thorin that would choose a stone over him; the rest of him was afraid _for_ him.

Yavanna help him, just the thought of Thorin made him feel shaky and the guilt solidify into a physical weight in his chest. He couldn’t see him; he just couldn’t.

He’d hide here in his chamber for as long as possible, letting Óin fuss over his wounds (though they were healing well and Bilbo had even managed to walk to the chair by the small fireplace before collapsing into it gratefully) and avoiding contact with the others.

It was better this way. This way there was less chance of anyone finding out; and then when they eventually did, the break would be cleaner for all of them.

 

*

 

By the time Bilbo was walking properly again, their situation had worsened considerably. The Templars seemed to have rallied and Smaug was evidently using Azog as an example, as those nobles who had run off at the first sign of danger now came scuttling back seeking favour with their lord – after all, the city was missing a Commander of the Watch.

Now that he was mostly recovered, Bilbo didn’t have a reason to stay in his chamber and avoid the Sons. All the things he’d used to do – sit and read with Ori, drink tea with Dori, compare herbs and potions with Óin, and of course simply enjoy Bofur’s company – it all made him feel extremely guilty and yet he had to continue to do them as if that weren’t the case. It was utterly exhausting, and that was without the constant worrying about Thorin: he was always at the back of Bilbo’s mind, an ever-present fear that drained him of energy. It was worse when Bilbo actually had to speak to him – though thankfully Thorin had never sought him out alone. His jaw had been set, betraying his nervousness, the first time he’d spoken to Bilbo since their last conversation about the Arkenstone; Bilbo would sometimes feel his gaze on his back, on his shoulder and chest, and he knew he was thinking about the scars.

It was the case right now; Bilbo was sitting with the other Sons in the living room, helping Ori tell Fíli and Kíli a story and noticing the way Dwalin’s eyes never left Ori for a moment, hyper aware of Thorin a few seats over and his skin tingling with the force of Thorin’s gaze. He only just resisted the urge to rub his shoulder.

It was getting progressively more uncomfortable and he couldn’t bear it; he decided to try and leave as subtly as possible – though it was impossible: as soon as he started to stand he had Dori fussing over him and his leg and Fíli and Kíli demanding where he was going as he hadn’t finished the story yet.

“I’m a little tired,” he said apologetically, lying through his teeth. “I’ll read to you both later though, how’s that?”

He felt Thorin’s eyes boring into him and when he glanced back he could see they were narrowed; quickly he left the room, needing to get away from such a piercing gaze before he cracked.

He took a few deep breaths once he was in the safety of the hallway, leaning against the wall; he closed his eyes just for a moment and tried to fight off the guilt that was threatening to wash over him.

“Are you unwell?”

Bilbo opened his eyes with a start and stepped away from the wall, surprised to see Thorin standing a couple of feet away of him. He hadn’t even heard him.

“No, no,” he said, not meeting Thorin’s gaze. “I’m just tired. I can’t sleep, that’s all.”

“Is Óin not giving you poppy milk?” Thorin asked, taking a step forward and Bilbo forced himself not to retreat a step.

“I asked him not to,” Bilbo said, doing his best to keep his voice professional, detached. “It – it gives me nightmares.”

He didn’t miss the way Thorin’s eyes widened at that and he took another step forward, his hand reaching out for Bilbo who did step back then, and Thorin pulled his hand back as if burnt.

“I didn’t know,” he said softly.

“Yes, well, why should you?” Bilbo asked, his voice falsely light. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I’d like to rest now though, so…” he trailed off and turned around, making for his chamber, but before he’d even taken two steps Thorin’s hand landed heavy on his shoulder, pulling him back around to face him.

“Bilbo, I–”

“Please, Thorin, don’t–”

“Master Thorin!”

Both Bilbo and Thorin froze at the sound of Thorin’s name being called and Thorin hastily let go of Bilbo, who took a step back as Thorin turned to face the newcomer, his face a polite mask.

“Pundurûn,” he said coolly. “What are you doing here?”

“Am I interrupting something?” Nori asked, ignoring the question as his eyes flicked between Thorin and Bilbo with interest, his gaze far too sharp for Bilbo’s liking.

“No, I was just leaving,” Bilbo said, once again turning and making for his chamber.

“Actually, Bilbo, it’s you I’ve come to see.”

Bilbo stopped again and turned to face him.

“Why?”

Thorin was looking at Nori with a frown on his face, evidently just as confused as Bilbo was.

“We got this for you.” He stepped past Thorin as he reached into his tunic and pulled out a square of paper, folded over and sealed with wax stamped with the mark of Yavanna. “Some kid called Milo dropped it off, said you was to get it immediately.”

Bilbo took it and cracked open the seal, wondering who from home would be sending him messages that required urgent delivery. He opened it to find Lobelia’s writing, written as if in a hurry – some of her letters were misshapen, the lines sloped downwards and there were sprays of ink where the pen had scratched. He felt a moment of alarm.

“It’s Lobelia,” he said. “She needs to see me. She’s waiting at the Starkindler’s temple.” He looked up to find both Thorin and Nori staring at him and he licked his lips nervously. “I should go.”

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Thorin said. “It’s not safe.”

“I’m perfectly safe on my own,” Bilbo said, tucking the letter into his belt. He started walking to his chamber and heard Thorin’s footsteps following him; he refused to acknowledge the other man as he pulled on his cloak, Thorin standing in the doorway behind him.

“You’re still injured.”

“I’m fine, Thorin,” Bilbo said, pushing past him and heading through the corridor. Nori was standing there, still watching with eyes alight with interest; at Bilbo’s sharp look he raised an eyebrow before scuttling into the living room and joining the others. Bilbo heard the shouts as he hugged his brothers, but Bilbo carried on towards the exit.

Thorin was still following him, and he had a determined expression on his face that told Bilbo he was going to be stubborn about this.

“Please, Thorin,” Bilbo sighed. “Let me do this alone.”

“None of us should be alone,” Thorin said staunchly. “It’s not safe. The Templars are _killing_ people, Bilbo. I can’t let that happen.”

“They won’t kill me!” Bilbo retorted before biting his lip abruptly. He let out a gust of air. “I will be careful, I promise.” Thorin said nothing, only glared at him. When Bilbo turned again and carried on walking, Thorin continued to follow him. “Yavanna’s sake, Thorin, are you really going to follow me all the way to Greenwood?” he asked in exasperation. Thorin’s silence told him everything. “Lady’s feet, you’re going to attract more attention if you try and tail me.”

“You know what to do, then,” Thorin said, his deep voice echoing in the tunnel and making the hairs on Bilbo’s skin stand on end.

Bilbo stopped and let out a sigh. “If you’re going to follow me, you might as well join me,” he said finally, and jumped when Thorin appeared beside him.

“Let’s go then.”

Bilbo just managed to refrain from cursing, and instead settled for thinking angry insults at Thorin for the remainder of the journey.

Above ground people were hurrying about their business, their eyes lowered to the ground to avoid the guards that seemed cockier and more abusive than before. As they slipped through the streets, Bilbo and Thorin saw one guard stop an old woman with a basket of apples; he pawed through the fruit, choosing one and taking a bite before throwing it back down into the basket which he then proceeded to knock from her hands, laughing loudly as she bent to retrieve them from the road. Bilbo felt fury in his belly but he forced himself to ignore it; he had to see Lobelia. She evidently needed him – the hastiness of her note and the fact she needed to see him in person made him worried. What could have happened to throw her out of her depth?

They reached the temple of Varda and instead of scaling it as he normally would Bilbo entered the temple, head bowed, and noted Thorin doing the same, though he looked distinctly uncomfortable to be in there. It was bright and airy inside, windows of forest green stained glass and candles twinkling high above their heads to look like stars and wooden furniture with leaves and foliage carved into the wood. The very air smelt ancient, as if this temple had been here since before time began and would continue to be long after the world stopped.

 Bilbo made his way over to a confessional box, slipping inside. There was a small groove at the side that met the wall and Bilbo felt around for it; once he had it he pulled it and the wall of the box slid to the side, a set of stairs leading up into the stone of the temple’s walls before him. He poked his head out of the box.

“Are you coming?” he murmured to Thorin, who looked confused until he saw what Bilbo was referring to, when his expression changed to one of shock but he followed anyway. Bilbo made sure to put the box’s wall back in place before heading up the stairs; it was dark and progress was slow, having to feel their way up each step and his chest and leg aching dully.

Eventually they reached the top, where they were blinded by the light that streamed in through a window set into one of the triangular stacks of the roof. Bilbo reached up to open the round window and shimmied out, holding it open for Thorin and shutting it once the Son was on the roof. They stood carefully, ready to duck in case of attack, but there was no-one there. Lobelia must be hiding, waiting for him.

“Lobelia?” he called.

“Bilbo!”

Bilbo frowned.

“ _Prim_ _?!”_ he called, trying to see her. That had definitely been his cousin’s voice – but why was _she_ here? “What are you doing here? Where’s Lobelia?”

Bilbo climbed onto one of the stacks to get a better view and his heart stopped, his entire body going cold.

Over on the other side of the temple roof were Prim and Drogo, each held by a Templar guard, their hands bound. Prim was shaking her head, her captor’s hand clamped down over her mouth; Drogo’s eyes were wide as he looked at Bilbo across the temple.

“No,” Bilbo whispered through numb lips, frozen in place. He’d forgotten about Thorin behind him until the Son moved, trying to see what had made Bilbo react as he had, and he let out a soft breath. Bilbo couldn’t move. “No, no, _no,”_ he said. “They are innocent,” he called out across the roof. “Let them go.”

One of the Templars gave a nasty laugh and it spurred Bilbo to action; he began to move towards them slowly, holding his hands out as if he could stop them that way.

“Let them go and I won’t hurt you,” he said, his voice coming out stronger. “They are not part of this.”

Now he was closer he could hear Prim’s frightened whimpering as she tried to breathe despite the Templar’s hand around her mouth. Bilbo tried to keep his own breathing calm; he had to save them – his cousins weren’t even assassins–

“Bilbo…” Thorin spoke from where Bilbo had left him, and Bilbo didn’t turn around.

“Stay there,” he said sharply. “Let them go,” he said again to the guards. Drogo was shivering and Prim’s eyes were red, their terrified gazes fixed on him. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, but I swear to you–”

“It’s a message,” the one holding Prim said with a sneer. “A warning.”

“He’s not happy,” said the other one. His grip on Drogo was so strong it was cutting off circulation the man’s arm; Bilbo could see his cousin’s fingers going blue. “You let him down.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bilbo said desperately, though icy fingers were clutching at him and his scars were prickling.

“He warned you this would happen. You’ve brought it upon yourself,” the first one said.

“Consider yourself warned, Master Baggins,” said the second one and then it was as if time stood still, though in reality it couldn’t have been more than a couple of seconds.

With almost perfect synchronisation, the two guards reached for their knives and brought them up to Prim’s and Drogo’s necks; Bilbo’s heart stopped and he could only cry out before they drew their knives across and there was red – so much red – and Prim and Drogo were crumpling to the floor like puppets with their strings cut.

Without thinking Bilbo pulled out his crossbow and fired, felling the Templars immediately as they turned to run. He ran forwards to where his cousins were lying – please, Lady, let them live – he knelt down beside Prim, his breeches immediately wet with the blood but he ignored it, ignored the stench of it that made him want to gag.

“Prim, Prim, you’re alright,” he whispered desperately, his vision blurring, but when he turned her over her eyes were sightless, glassy as a doll’s, and Bilbo retched at the sight of her neck. “No,” he said, “no, no!” He hurried over to Drogo, whispering a plea as he knelt beside him, but Drogo’s unseeing eyes stared up at the sky and blood continued to pour out of his throat. Bilbo could hear keening, the pained cries of a wounded animal, and realised it was himself but he couldn’t stop – couldn’t stop–

Someone was gripping his arms and pulling him up and away and Bilbo couldn’t see who it was, couldn’t fight them off. He turned his head from the sight of his cousins’ lifeless bodies and vomited, the acid burning his stomach and his mouth and only the person holding him up kept him from collapsing to the ground.

“You’re alright,” he heard someone saying, “you’re alright.” It was Thorin, it was Thorin’s voice and Bilbo closed his eyes. He wanted to bury his face in the man’s cloak and hide from the world, but all he could see was the bodies of his cousins and the blood and the iron smell of it; and the fact that _Smaug had done this._

Fury boiled in him and he pushed Thorin away, stumbling out of the man’s grip as anger kept him upright.

“I’m going to kill him,” he said, bending to pick up his crossbow and avoiding look at the bodies. A trickle of blood was making its way towards him and he stepped away from it. “I’m going to kill them all. They’ll pay for this, all of them.” he started striding towards the edge of the roof; he’d start with the guards in the street, who thought they could treat the citizens of the city like toys and have no repercussions–

“What?” he heard Thorin say. “No, Bilbo–”

“Leave me, Thorin,” Bilbo said coldly. If he’d never entered into this alliance with him, he’d never have been threatened by Smaug, he’d never have saved Elrond and his cousins would still be alive, and–

He nearly faltered at the thought of Frodo, but he forced himself onwards until he reached the edge of the roof, where he started to take aim at the guards down in the crowds. He was about to fire when the crossbow went flying from his hands, skittering across the rooftop. He turned to find Thorin standing there, looking at him warily and hands reaching out.

“You can’t do this, Bilbo. You can’t kill every single guard in the city.” His voice was sharp and – and so _reasonable_ that Bilbo wanted to hit him.

“You don’t know what I can do,” Bilbo hissed, reaching for his darts and poison. “I could kill them all and all the nobles as well, and I’m going to kill Smaug and let him and his scum _burn_ for what they’ve done–”

“Bilbo,” Thorin said and the warning was clear in his voice but Bilbo ignored it. “Calm down. You can’t go running off and killing them. Not like this, not on your own.” One of his hands reached out to Bilbo, who shrugged it off.

“Then help me or go home,” Bilbo said flatly. In the wake of his initial grief he felt numb, nothing except for cold fury in his veins.

“Stop this,” Thorin said, and this time he grabbed Bilbo’s arms and forced him around to face him. Bilbo pushed his hands away again. “You’re not thinking straight, you’re hurting, but please, you know you can’t do this. You know you’ll risk everything if you go running in there, you’ll get yourself killed and jeopardise our chances–”

“ _Fuck_ your chances!” Bilbo shouted, attempting to brush Thorin’s hands off him again but the other man only tightened his grip. “This isn’t just about _you_ , Thorin! This is so much bigger than you!”

“Bilbo–”

“That man has killed my cousins!” Bilbo was screaming at him now, the tears coming back as he tried to loosen Thorin’s grip where his fingers were digging into his arms. He was trying to move away but Thorin only moved with him.

“He killed my family!” Thorin shouted back, his voice cracking on the last syllable and Bilbo didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want Thorin’s reason or his story or his pain and he beat his fists against Thorin, desperately trying to get away but it was like beating metal; Thorin didn’t even flinch and suddenly all the fight left him and he sagged, only Thorin’s iron grip around his arms stopping him from hitting the floor.

Thorin kept a hold of him and lowered them both to the ground, pulling Bilbo to his chest as they sank to their knees and Bilbo let the grief wash over him and quickly replace the fury. Thorin stroked his back as sobs wracked through him; he said nothing, simply held him until Bilbo was hiccupping but the tears had stopped. Bilbo thought he’d be sick if he moved and he clutched at Thorin as if he was the only thing stopping him from drowning, his fingers fisting in Thorin’s robes as the furred collar grew damp under his cheek.

Eventually Bilbo stopped, too tired to even cry, and they sat like that for a few moments more: Thorin’s hand on his back, his other hand closing around one of Bilbo’s where it clutched at his cloak. The shivers started then, rocking through Bilbo’s body violently and Thorin simply pulled him closer and held him, his arms enveloping him in warmth. Bilbo closed his eyes and didn’t try and stop shivering, too exhausted to do more than let them take him; eventually those stopped too and they simply knelt there, Bilbo holding onto Thorin for dear life.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin whispered in his ear and Bilbo screwed his eyes shut. He said nothing for a long moment.

“I need to go home,” Bilbo said. “Frodo. I need to make sure he’s alright. I need – need to bury them.” He was so exhausted he didn’t have the energy to cry again, though his heart broke a little inside him.

“Of course,” Thorin said. He helped Bilbo up, keeping him facing him and not towards where the dead bodies of his cousins lay. He walked him towards the window where they’d come out and Bilbo let himself be led, too tired to protest and his limbs going through the motions mechanically. He wanted to sleep for a hundred years, he wanted the blackness to envelope him and make him forget the pain; but he had to go back to the Shire. He had to make sure Lobelia and Frodo and all the other Children were safe.

It all passed in a blur: Bilbo honestly couldn’t say how he got down from the roof of the Starkindler’s temple and back to their quarters in Rohan, where he was rushed to his chamber and Óin was giving him something and he must have slept then, as the next thing he knew he was walking through Mirkwood, leading Thorin and Dwalin, who was pulling a cart covered in a sheet – he was still numb, he knew exactly what was under the sheet and yet he couldn’t feel anything except disbelief, as if this was just another of his nightmares and soon enough he’d wake up in his chamber in Rohan.

Balin was with them too, his face full of sorrow, and Bilbo couldn’t look. He let his feet lead the way back to the Shire, the little windows jewels of light in the darkness. He was torn between seeing Lobelia or running to Prim and Drogo’s smial – what _had_ been theirs – to find Frodo; what if they’d hurt him? What if he was dead too?

Icy fingers of fear stole his breath and he ran to Prim and Drogo’s smial, ignoring the twinge of his leg and images crowding his mind – Frodo’s little body lying in a pool of blood, Frodo hurt and left to die, Frodo with a great bloodied gash across his neck–

There was nothing out of the ordinary in the smial; there were piles of books everywhere as usual, the clock above the mantelpiece ticked softly, and the kitchen looked so _normal_ it was almost as if Prim was going to walk in any second and start making them all tea. He ignored the breathlessness and darted to Frodo’s room, feeling sick; no body greeted him, no drops of crimson on the thick green rug. Frodo wasn’t there, and the rooms was just as messily organised as it always was. He felt his knees go weak with relief, but he still couldn’t breathe for worry – what if they’d taken him? What if he was being held by Smaug right now?

He ignored Thorin’s concerned comment – he hadn’t even noticed Thorin had followed him – and rushed out of the smial back to Bag End, forcing himself to calm down and only a slight tremor betraying his fear as he knocked on the door. He hoped Lobelia would know where Frodo was, that she’d know what happened – evidently she had not written that letter; he should have noticed, should have been more suspicious, should have should have _should have._ It was too late now.

But it wasn’t Lobelia who opened the door; there was the pattering of little feet and a little dark haired fauntling pulled it open and Bilbo felt relief course through him.

“Uncle Bilbo!” Frodo cried, launching himself into Bilbo’s arms. Bilbo’s breath left him in a rush and he closed his arms around the boy’s little body, holding him tightly as tears threatened to spill but he forced himself not to let them fall, for Frodo’s sake.

“Hey,” he said thickly, still holding onto him tightly. “You’re alright.”

Frodo seemed entirely unperturbed by Bilbo’s tight grip on him and only giggled.

“Bilbo?” Bilbo looked up and found Lobelia in the doorway, looking at him in surprise. “What are you doing here? Prim and Drogo went to see you – where–?” Bilbo shook his head slightly, hoping she’d understand and she swallowed thickly at his gesture. “Frodo,” she said then. “Why don’t you go and get your books you want to show Uncle Bilbo?”

“Yes, Lobelia,” he said obediently and Bilbo released him; Bilbo scampered off to the room he always slept in when he visited Bilbo.

“Where are Prim and Drogo?” Lobelia asked again then, her face white. Thorin and Balin moved aside from where they stood behind Bilbo, giving Lobelia a clear view of Dwalin and the cart. Her eyes grew wide and she seemed to stumble, catching onto the doorframe for support. “Oh, sweet Lady, no,” she breathed, voice breaking, and Bilbo took her hand.

“You have to tell me what happened,” Bilbo said, leading her gently into the house. “Please, Lobelia. I need to understand.” He looked back at the Sons, watching them with wide eyes. “Two doors down, Otho Sackville-Baggins. Tell him what’s happened, and to come here.”

Thorin nodded and made to move. Balin nodded inside the smial. “Perhaps someone should watch out for the lad. Make sure he doesna hear anythin’.” Bilbo gave a nod of agreement; Balin would be good with Frodo.

He sat with Lobelia in the parlour, still clutching at her hand as tightly as she was his. “They got a note this morning,” she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper. “It was delivered by the same person who delivered your message about the Children to accompany Elrond out of the city. A red-head. She had your handkerchief.”

Tauriel?

“What did the message say?” Bilbo asked. “Did she say where she’d got it?”

“One of our street kids,” she said. “Prim came over this morning to show me it. It was your writing Bilbo – as if you’d written in a rush – you wanted to meet them at the Starkindler’s temple this afternoon and she wanted me to watch Frodo for the afternoon until they got back. I wasn’t worried until you appeared–” she took a deep shuddering breath but didn’t cry, though Bilbo could see tears in her eyes. “You didn’t send the message, did you?”

Bilbo shook his head and reached into his belt to show her the message he’d received. She took it from him with a hand that shook a little. She made a small noise as she read it.

“I never wrote this. I – Bilbo – _how?”_

“They were bound and held by Templars. It – it was quick, Lobelia,” he said thickly, his voice about to break. “They wouldn’t have felt it.”

Lobelia let out a choked off sob and Bilbo stood and embraced her; they stayed like that for a while, simply holding each other.

“Who would do this, Bilbo?” she asked, pulling in breaths around the sobs. “Who _could_ do this?”

Bilbo hesitated, though he knew there was only one answer. “Smaug. He must have guessed I’ve made this alliance. He’s the only one who could have found our contacts, found out enough to be able to copy our writing–”

_A warning. Consider yourself warned, Master Baggins._

Smaug had gone too far. Bilbo was going to kill him if it was the last thing he did.

They were interrupted by a knock at the door and Bilbo went and opened it, finding Otho on the doorstep, the Sons behind him.

“What’s going on?” he asked Bilbo with a shocked voice. “Was it really Prim and Drogo?”

Bilbo gave a short nod. “They’re safe? And you’ve got boys working on the graves now?”

It was Otho’s turn to nod and Bilbo sighed, letting him in. He gestured that Thorin and Dwalin should come in too and he went to the kitchen to make tea, just to keep busy. The evening passed in a blur, as he discussed how they were going to bury Prim and Drogo the next afternoon. It was bad luck to wait; they needed to be returned to the earth as soon as possible so they could join Yavanna in her gardens.

“What do we tell Frodo?” Lobelia asked as she helped Bilbo make up beds for the sons after Otho had gone. It was after midnight and the lad had been persuaded to go to sleep, so unconcerned and carefree.

“Leave it to me,” Bilbo said quietly. “I’ll tell him tomorrow.” The hardest question was whether Frodo should be present at the burial: he was too young to understand, but when he was older he might resent Bilbo denying him a last chance to say goodbye.

He couldn’t look at Thorin as the Son said goodnight, partly because of the deception slowly taking shape in Bilbo’s mind. He also couldn’t stand the pity in the man’s eyes.

He found himself in Frodo’s room, wanting to reassure himself that the boy was whole and well. He didn’t stir at the light of Bilbo’s candle, and when Bilbo curled himself around him the boy only snuggled closer. Bilbo timed his breathing to that of Frodo’s, feeling his small back rise and fall with each breath.

“Uncle Bilbo?”

He looked down and saw Frodo looking up at him with eyes still half closed with sleep.

“Hey, Frodo,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.”

“Are mama and papa coming back soon?” Frodo asked sleepily, his eyes drifting shut again. “Mama promised me she’d bring me gingerbread from the city.”

Bilbo unconsciously tightened his grip on the boy. “Your mama won’t be coming back for a while, my lad,” he said softly. “Nor your papa. So you’ll have to be brave for a little while, and Lobelia will look after you. Do you think you can do that for me?”

“I think so, Uncle,” he said, his eyes closing properly and only a few moments later he let out a soft little snore. Bilbo didn’t want to let him go, didn’t want to leave him again ever – look what had happened now that he’d left his Children – but he forced himself to let go and take himself to his own bed, staring at the ceiling until the candle ran out and he stared into darkness.

He must have dropped off just before it started to get light as the next thing he knew Lobelia was knocking on his door and bringing him breakfast, daylight streaming through his curtains. When he was up properly, Bilbo ventured into the rest of the smial and found Frodo playing with Thorin, hanging off the man’s arm and swinging his feet as he squealed with delight. Thorin had a smile on his face and he laughed when Frodo did. The sight was so surprising and so tender that Bilbo felt his throat close up and he had to take a few breaths before he could enter the room.

Immediately Thorin’s expression grew sombre.

“Bilbo,” he said and Bilbo gave him a nod before looking away. He’d hardly slept and he felt awful; his face was haggard and he had dark circles under his eyes.

“I – Frodo and I are going to go for a walk,” he said and immediately Thorin put the lad down and he ran to Bilbo, grabbing at his hand, and his sunny smile making Bilbo want to both laugh and cry at the same time.

“Of course,” Thorin said. “I’ll… we’ll be here when you get back.”

Bilbo nodded and took Frodo’s hand, letting the boy natter on as they left the smial and headed out to the fields. They sat by a little brook, the long grass waving in the late summer breeze and daisies and buttercups little gems of colour against the grass.

Bilbo picked one and fiddled with it for a moment before turning to Frodo, who was making a daisy chain.

“Frodo,” he said softly and the boy looked at him with his big blue eyes. “Do you remember what I told you last night?”

“About mama and papa?” he asked.

Bilbo nodded. “Exactly. I said they weren’t coming back for a while. Well–” he ruffled Frodo’s dark hair, inherited from Prim’s Brandybuck side of the family. “They won’t be coming back, my boy.”

Frodo frowned. “Not ever?”

“No,” Bilbo said softly. “They – they’re dead, Frodo.” He took a deep breath. “You see how flowers grow, all colourful and pretty? And then when you pick them they go brown? They die, Frodo. When a person stops breathing, or a flower doesn’t have its roots any more, they die.”

Frodo was looking at his daisy chain, fingering the petals. “Does it hurt?” he said quietly.

“No,” he said thickly. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s just like falling asleep, and they were having the best dream of you when they fell asleep. They loved you and they always will, even if they’re not here, alright?”

Frodo nodded, though Bilbo could see him swallowing and his eyes glittering.

“It’s okay to cry, my boy,” he said and Frodo let out a sniff before the tears fell and Bilbo pulled him to his chest, holding him close. “Don’t ever be afraid to cry, Frodo. It makes you feel better.” He drew his hand in comforting circles on Frodo’s back as the boy wept into his shirt. “Lots of people will be crying today,” he carried on, feeling the thickness in his throat. “You know how when the flowers die, we put them back in the ground to make the earth better for the new flowers? That’s what we’re going to do with your mama and papa, and they’re going to make the earth so much better that the most beautiful flowers in all the Shire will grow there.”

“But I won’t see them again?” Frodo asked, his voice muffled against Bilbo’s shirt. Bilbo tightened his grip around him.

“No,” he said softly. “But you’ll always have them in here,” he tapped Frodo’s head, “and in here.” He held a hand to Frodo’s heart. “We’ll never forget them, Frodo. So long as you’re never afraid to talk about them, and know that you are _so loved._ ”

They sat there a long while, simply sitting under the sun as Bilbo rocked Frodo until he stopped crying.

“Will I live with you, Uncle Bilbo?” he asked, his little voice hoarse. Bilbo smiled.

“Very soon, my boy. Very soon indeed.”

 

*

 

The funeral happened later that afternoon, and it was a simple affair. As was Shire tradition, the guests all wore simple clothes with no shoes, and crowns of flowers adorned their curls. Prim and Drogo were laid to rest under the blossom hills, their bodies covered in pristine white sheets embroidered with the Baggins acorn and summer flowers. They sprinkled seeds on the new earth and afterwards they ate and drank and remembered them.

If it hadn’t been so untimely and under such cruel circumstances, it would almost have been an enjoyable funeral, as they went. Frodo didn’t let go of Bilbo’s hand once throughout the proceedings, but aside from turning his face to press into Bilbo’s jacket as the bodies of his parents were carried to their resting place, he didn’t cry and when it was time to put him to bed, he smiled sleepily at Bilbo.

“Mama and Papa are going to see Yavanna, aren’t they?” he said as he settled under the covers.

“Yes,” Bilbo smiled as he tucked him in.

“Then that’s good,” Frodo said firmly. “She’ll look after them.”

Bilbo pressed a kiss to Frodo’s forehead. “Just as I’m going to look after you,” he said and chucked the boy’s chin, making him give a tired giggle before sleep took him and his face relaxed, once again carefree and innocent. How Bilbo wished he could stay like that.

He’d have to leave in the morning. It would be a wrench to the boy to lose him so soon after saying goodbye to his parents, but he’d be back. He’d only be gone long enough to get revenge for Prim and Drogo, for Beregond, and then he’d be back and he’d make sure this boy wanted for nothing.

He left Frodo’s room silently and went to find Lobelia. The Sons were already in their rooms but Lobelia was still up, sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea held between her hands. She still wore her crown of honeysuckle and daisies.

“How’s Frodo?” she asked, her voice weary.

“As well as can be expected,” Bilbo said, taking the seat beside her and pouring himself a cup from the teapot. “He’ll be fine, I’m sure. He’s stronger and sharper than we think.”

“He’s a brave little boy,” Lobelia said. “I still can’t believe it, Bilbo. How can they be gone?”

Bilbo let her rest her head on his shoulder, crushing the honeysuckle against his jacket and releasing their heady scent. After a while he turned and cupped her cheeks, turning her to look at him.

“Lobelia, listen to me,” he said, a note of urgency in his voice. “The Sons are going to try and stop me, but I’m going to kill the man that’s done this. I’m going to kill Smaug.”

“What?” she asked, frowning. “Why would they stop you?”

“They don’t think I can do it. They want a plan, they want battle strategy, but I’m _sick_ of making plans that Smaug finds out about and sabotages. I’m sick of living in fear of him, of this city suffering because of him. But I’ve got my own plan and I’m sure it’ll work. I’ll need you though.”

“Me?” she asked, surprised. Bilbo could see disbelief in her eyes. “Why would you need me?”

Bilbo smiled at her. “For the very same reasons you are my second-in-command, Lobelia Bracegirdle.” She almost smiled at that. “Meet me at the northern gate of the Citadel in two days’ time, an hour before sunset. I’ll explain everything to you then.”

She nodded. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Bilbo.”

“So do I,” he whispered, turning back to his tea. “So do I.”

 

*

 

Before he headed to bed he knocked on Thorin’s door, heart in his throat and guilt sitting heavy in his stomach like a stone. Thorin opened the door and his expression softened when he saw it was Bilbo; Bilbo felt his throat close up and looked down at the floor.

“Can I come in?” he asked and Thorin immediately stepped back, opening the door wider. Bilbo crossed into the room, not looking at Thorin but aware of the other man’s eyes on him; unconsciously his fingers twisted the handkerchief in his pocket. He swallowed hard and turned to face Thorin.

“I want to give you something.” Thorin frowned.

“Me?”

Bilbo nodded. He pulled the handkerchief out of his pocket and forced himself to make the couple of steps across the room towards Thorin, reaching for the other man’s hand and bringing it up before depositing the handkerchief on his palm. He closed Thorin’s hand around it and let go, the feeling of Thorin’s skin burning him. Thorin looked down at the square of white linen in his hand, a green acorn embroidered in the corner.

“Why?” he asked, his frown deepening even as he curled his fingers around it again and he looked at Bilbo in confusion. “Why are you giving me this, Bilbo?”

“It’s a token,” Bilbo said, unable to fully meet Thorin’s eye. “A promise. Of – of friendship between us. Between our Orders.” Thorin was looking at him sharply, as if trying to decipher what he was saying, and Bilbo was suddenly afraid that he would see right through him. He sighed, feeling tears start prickling at his eyes from nowhere but he ignored them, pushing them back down even as his voice broke. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to us, Thorin. It’s just – just in case something happens. Please, keep it.”

“I…” Thorin looked like he wanted to say something, but he snapped his mouth shut and looked back down at the handkerchief, small in his large hand. Bilbo ignored the longing that was running slowly through his veins; he ignored the way all he wanted to do was to walk up to Thorin and envelope himself in his arms, run his hands through his hair, feel his skin beneath his hands and tell him everything, tell him it all. He couldn’t do that.

He tore his eyes away from Thorin and headed to the door.

“Bilbo, wait–”

“Goodnight, Thorin,” he said and shut the door behind him, not wanting to hear what Thorin was going to say because every moment spent in his company was one moment too many, one moment closer to revealing his deception. He let out a shaky breath and hurried to his room, dreading the coming morning.

Leaving Frodo was hard. He clung to Bilbo desperately, crying and begging him not to go, but Bilbo eventually managed to calm him down. It took all his strength not to abandon his own plan and stay there with Frodo, ignoring the rest of the world; but the rest of the world wouldn’t ignore them and he hardened his heart and forced himself not to falter as he walked away from Bag End.

The Sons were quiet behind him and he was grateful they didn’t say anything; he didn’t want words of pity or condolence. He wanted action and revenge.

He started to understand the Thorin Oakenshield of the stories, the single-mindedness and stubbornness that had made him the stuff of parlour stories and fireside tales. It was easy to forsake other things in the face of a goal like revenge.

Bilbo didn’t say anything either and when they got back to Rohan he went straight to his chamber, letting Thorin tell the others what had happened. He slept that night – not well, but free from nightmares. He felt numb all over now that there was no one to be strong for, and it was hard to summon the energy to get up and go through the motions.

The Sons were every level of considerate, bringing him food and tea and offering him their pipes and even Kíli offered to read to him, which was almost enough to melt Bilbo’s numbness, but the rest he simply found cloying – the way they tiptoed around him, speaking in slightly hushed voices.

It grew too much for him after a while and he stood abruptly.

“I’m not made of glass, you know,” he said crossly. “I shan’t break.” And with that he strode off out of the tunnels and took refuge sitting out on the hillside of Théoden’s stable, the scent of hay and horse strong in the breeze but at least it wasn’t the musty smell of stone.

After a while Bofur came and found him; he said nothing, only held out his pipe which Bilbo accepted and took a grateful puff. They sat in silence and simply watched the world go by as the sun started to set.

“Prim was the best apothecary in the Shire,” he said eventually. “And Drogo carved the finest darts.”

Bofur didn’t say anything to that.

Bilbo gave a little huff of almost-laughter. “And yet she couldn’t abide the smell of woundswort, and he used to suffer from the pollen in the fields so much that I used to have to collect the wood for him to carve with sometimes.” He looked at his hands. “It’s my fault they’re dead.”

Bofur shook his head emphatically. “It is _not_ your fault, Bilbo. Don’t you think that. It’s not your fault.”

“You don’t understand, Bofur,” he said, shaking his head and biting his lip before he could say too much. “I’m tired. Thank you for the pipe.” he stood and made to go back inside, and he was grateful when Bofur didn’t stop him.

Dori knocked later and brought him a tray of food; Bilbo picked at it but it turned to stone in his stomach and he couldn’t eat it so he left it on his table, unfinished. If Dori found it odd when he came to collect the plates, he didn’t say anything.

When morning came Bilbo once again had to force himself out of bed, though he still felt numb and detached from things around him, as if he was watching things from somewhere outside of his body. But he had a fire burning low in his belly today, because he was going to kill Smaug.

Evening started to draw near and most Sons were occupied or in their rooms; Thorin, Balin and Dwalin were all in Balin’s study and they were the ones Bilbo wanted to avoid the most. Bofur and Ori insisted on sitting with him in the living quarters, just them in the large room. Bilbo knew Thorin had set them to watch him; Bofur thought he was being subtle with his carving and his knives but he’d been carving the same bit of wood for nearly two hours now and there had been little progress.

After a while he stood, pretending to yawn.  He kept his voice devoid of inflection.

“I’m going to bed,” he said and walked to the doorway.

“Alright,” Bofur said. Bilbo left the room and headed away from his room, instead heading towards the tunnels; sure enough a moment later he heard Bofur’s voice behind him.

“Ah,” he said. “Bilbo, that’s not the way to your room.”

Bilbo didn’t say anything, just carried on walking. He had everything he needed on him.

“Bilbo,” Bofur called and Bilbo could hear him following him, hurrying to catch up. He was nearly at the exit to the tunnels when suddenly both Ori and Bofur were before him, blocking off his exit.

“Move out of my way,” Bilbo said tiredly. “Please.”

“We know what you’re about to do,” Ori said, looking at Bilbo with wide eyes but determination. “You’re about to get yourself killed. Please don’t.”

“I’m about to go and settle a debt,” Bilbo bit out. “Surely you of all people will understand that.”

“This price is too great,” Ori said softly. “You’re worth more to us than Smaug’s death, Bilbo.”

Bilbo’s lips twisted upwards a tiny amount in a wry smile. “Let me pass.”

“No.” That was Bofur, and he crossed his arms and glared at Bilbo.

“Bofur.”

“We won’t let you go, Bilbo.”

Bilbo let out a sigh and rubbed his temples, pulling in a deep breath before letting his hand drift down to his belt and the darts that waited there. He picked one up and twirled it between his fingers.

“Please don’t make me do this,” he said, noting the way their eyes widened as they saw the dart.

“You wouldn’t,” Ori whispered.

“It’s not poison,” Bilbo said. “It’ll just send you to sleep for an hour or so. But I’d rather not do it to you, for obvious reasons.”

“Please just wait for Thorin,” Ori said, his brown eyes wide and looking at Bilbo pleadingly. “Just wait and think of something else, something less suicidal–”

“Ori,” Bilbo said and he saw the way the younger Son swallowed, his gaze flicking down to where Bilbo still held the dart. “I have a plan and I will not be sacrificing myself for Smaug. But I’m _tired_ , Ori. You lot are used to this life, to living in secret in underground tunnels. But I’m not really one of you and I want to go _home._ I want my armchair and my books and I want my nephew to be happy and safe. I’m sorry.”

Ori said nothing and Bilbo really thought he was going to have to use the dart.

“‘E’s righ’,” Bofur said eventually. “You don’ belong underground with us. You belong up there in the sun and the grass.” Bofur gave him a long look. “Go on, Bilbo.”

Ori looked at Bofur in shock. “Bofur! No, Bilbo–”

“Ori,” Bofur said. “Le’ ‘im go. You know ‘e’s righ’. ‘E’s not one of us.” he turned to Bilbo. “I wish you all the luck in the world.”

Bilbo felt his heart give a little tremble then but he forced himself to ignore it and slipped the dart back into his pouch before pushing past them and into the tunnel beyond.

 

***

 

“Master Oakenshield!” Ori burst into Balin’s office. “Thorin, Bilbo’s gone–”

“Gone?” Thorin stood. “What do you mean, gone?”

“We mean he’s gone,” Bofur said, appearing in the doorway behind Ori. Thorin could feel dread settling icy in his stomach.

“You were supposed to be watching him,” Thorin said sharply. “What happened to let him get past you?”

Bofur raised his hands as if in surrender. “He threatened us,” he said defensively. “Put a poison dart to Ori’s neck and threatened to push it in if we didn’t let ‘im go.” Thorin closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, and consequently missed the look Ori threw Bofur.

“He threatened you?” Dwalin was asking. “Are ye alrigh’?”

Ori was reassuring Dwalin of his well-being when finally Thorin felt calm enough to speak.

“We go after him. All of us. We make this a full frontal assault. Dwalin, you go and ready what’s left of Azog’s men. Bofur, you gather the men of Ered Luin and Erebor; bring them to the Citadel. Balin, wake the others.” His voice was clipped, authoritative, hiding the fear currently attempting to overtake him.

The others murmured their assent and scurried off and Thorin nearly forgot about Ori, looking at him with wide eyes.

“There’s no shame in staying,” he said gently, knowing Ori’s preference to the pen over the sword. But Ori’s expression hardened into determination until his face was stony.

“I’ll fight with you,” he said stubbornly. “I need to help.”

Thorin gave him a small smile. Ori was not a fighter, not like his brothers, but he was brave.

“You stick with Dori then,” he said. “Or Dwalin. But you don’t let anything happen to yourself.” Ori nodded and turned to go and collect his weapons and armour along with the others, and Thorin had to force himself to move. His heart was thudding painfully; every second Bilbo was getting closer to Smaug – and that was if he hadn’t already been killed by the guards before even reaching Smaug.

He was finding it hard to breathe, so he forced himself to move, hurrying to put on his layers of boiled leather beneath his robes, the pieces of slim-fitting armour and checking he had all his weapons. He’d have to make sure Fíli and Kíli were safe – Théoden would watch them, he was sure.

Fíli and Kíli were tucked up in bed reading when Thorin knocked and entered, letting in the sounds of metal clanking and shouts from the corridor. They looked up at confusion, and Fíli’s eyes widened when she saw his armour.

“Uncle?” she asked uncertainly.

“Hey,” he said softly, sinking onto the bed beside them.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing to worry about,” he said reassuringly, hoping it wasn’t a lie. “But I’m going to need you both to stay with Théoden tonight.”

“Why?” Kíli asked, his brown eyes wide. “What’s happening?”

Thorin hesitated. “Bilbo’s in trouble and we’ve got to go get him.”

“He’s in trouble?” Kíli repeated. “He’s not going to die?”

“No, lad,” Thorin said, forcing a smile onto his face to try and ease Kíli’s worry. “Don’t you worry. He just needs our help, that’s all. Which is why you need to stay with Théoden. Now come on, grab your extra clothes.” Once they were dressed warmly he took them up to Théoden, who seemed surprised to see them but agreed to look after them and started to make them warm milk. Thorin told him to take them to Bombur’s inn, should anything happen to him.

Once Fíli and Kíli were safe, the others were also ready to go. Grim-faced, Thorin led them through the tunnels towards the Citadel. That was where Bilbo was most likely to be, and when they surfaced they’d hopefully be able to find him if he hadn’t reached there yet.

It was raining when they came above ground again, one of the late summer storms that would only last a few hours but would make the river swell and the gutters overflow with its intensity. The sun was still setting behind the grey of the heavy, swollen clouds, tinting them with orange as if they were on fire. It was unsettling.

They were drenched as soon as they started making their way through the city, charging through the streets. Citizens would stop and stare with open mouths as they passed, or run away; whenever a guard spotted them he would either try and take them on and was swiftly cut down for his troubles, or he’d run away too, no doubt to find reinforcements.

Thorin didn’t care. He cared only about reaching the Citadel.

As they approached they heard the sounds of fighting and found Dwalin with the remainder of Azog’s men, about thirty of them, fighting off a smaller troop of Templar guards. Dwalin was grinning as he sliced and battered with his axe until all the guards were dead. He saw Thorin and the Sons and wiped his face of rain and blood.

“Good job,” Thorin said as they surveyed the dead.

“What’s the plan?” Dwalin asked as he cleaned his axe on a dead guard’s breeches.

“We’re going to fight Smaug,” Thorin said. Dwalin raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

“Sounds good to me.”

It was chaos in the Citadel. There were no guards at all and the houses seemed to be in uproar, women screaming and men shouting. Thorin paid no mind to it, instead leading his group of Sons and Azog’s men forward into the heart of the Citadel towards the Lonely Tower. As they approached, Thorin realised why there had been no guards in the streets: they were all here, a hundred of them, guarding the entrance to the Tower.

The two groups stood there, regarding each other: a handful of Sons and thirty mercenaries against a hundred Templar guards in armour that shone in the low light. They sized each other up, Thorin feeling hatred burn in him even as he knew this was going to be a hard fight.

“I suppose you’ve come to rescue your friend,” the captain of the Templars called to Thorin, who tensed. “Came here to hand himself in. Wanted to stop the fighting, the fool.”

“What have you done with him?” Thorin demanded.

“Me? Nothing,” the man sneered. “Though I can’t say what my master will do to him.”

Thorin felt his blood run cold even as fury descended, turning his vision red.

“Kill them, boys,” he heard the captain say, and the chaos commenced. They ran at each other, ignoring the rain, and Thorin was caught up in the melee of shouts and blood and his only thought was to kill enough that he could get away to find Bilbo.

He could hear footsteps and the clanking of weapons approaching and with a sinking feeling he thought it was more Templars, come to finish them, but as he swung his sword around he saw Bofur’s ridiculous hat, dripping with rainwater, and behind him fifty or so men armed with various axes and hammers and swords.

Bofur had rallied the men from Ered Luin, from Erebor, and they had come.

After that it was a blur but they gained the advantage, with every stroke of his sword and slice of his hidden blade another Templar fell. Rage made him move like a madman, felling any Templar that got too near – they’d taken his father, his grandfather, his _brother –_ they’d taken his innocence and his youth – they were _not_ going to take Bilbo from him too–

He was starting to tire, his arms beginning to grow heavy; he just had to keep going, push past them, get to Bilbo–

“Thorin,” Dwalin shouted to him as he struck his axe against the helmet of a guard before swiping across his legs and bringing him down. “Get to the Tower. Get to Bilbo. We’ll manage here–” Dwalin darted to one side to dodge a guard’s sword just as Thorin drove his own sword into the gap between the guard’s breast plate and his faulds.

“Keep the others safe,” he said and left the fray, his blood pounding and thrumming in his veins as he ran up the stone pathway that led to the entrance to the Tower. He’d never find Bilbo if he tried to go inside, he’d just get lost–

He could climb the outside of the castle, however… Smaug’s tower was surrounded by a wall that protected it from one side, though his tower sat on the bank of the River Running. The wall would take him within reach of Smaug’s tower, and he could climb up the rest of the way… Surely Bilbo would be up there – at the very least, Smaug would be. And if the guard was right and Bilbo really had come to hand himself in… who knew what Smaug was doing to him now?

He took a deep breath and began to climb. The walls were built of white stone, strangely smooth, but the gaps in the mortar gave him good enough handholds. More than once he came close to falling, the stone slippery with rain and his arms weakened from the fight, but he carried on. He climbed steadily higher, too high, so high he could see the light at the top of Smaug’s tower and the surface of the River Running below, churning with the rain. The fight down below was nearly over.

He reached the top of the wall, dizzyingly high now, and was pulling himself up to run across the length of it towards Smaug’s tower when a figure appeared silhouetted against the light of Smaug’s rooms. Thorin’s lip curled and he felt rage burning through him as he recognised Smaug, but then he turned cold as a smaller figure appeared beside Smaug.

_Bilbo._

He couldn’t breathe.

The door to Smaug’s suite opened and Thorin couldn’t move, could only watch as Smaug pushed Bilbo out in front of him onto the balcony that overlooked the river. There was no railing, nothing to hold onto, and Thorin felt frozen as he watched the wind whip at Bilbo’s hair, the rain flattening his curls. Bilbo was unarmed, he could see that much; his cloak gone and blood matting his curls on his right temple. His eyes were wide as he looked at Thorin.

“Bilbo,” he choked out, still unable to move.

Despite the rain still falling in sheets around them, Thorin had no trouble hearing Smaug’s words.

“Welcome, Thorin Oakenshield. How wonderful to see you again. I was _so_ hoping you’d be stopping by.”

 

***

 

“How long has it been now? Twelve years?” Smaug’s voice was amused as he called down to Thorin, the wind stealing his words and carrying them to Thorin where he stood frozen on the wall. Bilbo’s heart was thumping painfully.

He saw Thorin’s mouth open as he said Smaug’s name, though no sound reached them.

“Why don’t you join us?” Smaug called. “So we can catch up like old friends.”

“Old friends,” Bilbo just heard Thorin spit the words out with venom. “You deserve to die for what you’ve done, Smaug.”

“Your family always were so overdramatic,” Smaug said with a sigh. Bilbo could see Thorin tensing up. “So much fuss over such a little thing.” Thorin’s face was distorted with anger.

“Killing my family was not a little thing,” Thorin said, his voice stony.

“No, quite right,” Smaug’s voice was silky as he called down to Thorin. “I don’t mean that. I’m talking about the Arkenstone.”

Bilbo felt sick. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the strange expression that crossed Thorin’s face then.

“Don’t listen to him, Thorin,” he called and immediately Smaug’s hand tightened around his arm and Bilbo bit down his cry.

“I thought you’d learned your lesson,” Smaug whispered, his voice hypnotic as he spoke in Bilbo’s ear. His hand gripped Bilbo’s jaw. “I thought your cousin’s deaths would teach you not to cross me.”

“Don’t hurt him,” Thorin’s voice sounded across the air between them and Bilbo’s heart clenched painfully at the fear evident in Thorin’s voice. He felt Smaug turn his head to look at Thorin. “Smaug, whatever you’re planning, don’t hurt him,” Thorin said and there was a dangerous note to his voice that made Bilbo shiver.

“Oh,” Smaug said, and then he laughed. “This is precious. Do you hear this, burglar? Oakenshield _cares_ for you.” Bilbo kept his eyes shut, swallowing around the thickness in his throat. “Does he know?”

Bilbo didn’t say anything, fear cutting off his voice. Ever since he’d walked into Smaug’s suite he’d been terrified, though he knew that this was the only way to kill him. Thorin should just kill him now, with his knives – he should stop this conversation right now, before Smaug could get inside his mind – he hoped Lobelia was in place and knew not to worry about him when she made her strike; Smaug was going to _pay_ and there was no price Bilbo wasn’t willing to pay to make sure he did so–

“Smaug, let him go,” Thorin shouted. There was a clattering in the courtyard below them and Bilbo looked down, feeling dizzy at the height, and saw the Sons come rushing in, all of them with their weapons raised as they took in the sight before them. Bilbo wanted to scream at them to run, to leave, but he was still frozen.

“Ah, you brought friends,” Smaug said, his voice glittering and dangerous. “How lovely. It’d be a shame for them to miss this.”

“What are you talking about?” Thorin asked.

“Thorin, no, he’s playing you–” Bilbo cried out, finding his voice and Smaug let out a snarl, his hands still like a vice around Bilbo’s arm.

“Trying to save him, are you, little _thief_?” Smaug hissed and there was nothing soft or silky in his voice now, it was hard and dangerous and Bilbo couldn’t stop shaking, raindrops dripping into his eyes from his hair. “I suppose I should expect nothing less from a little _liar_ like you.” His grip didn’t falter for a second. “Why don’t you tell him, Master Baggins?”

“Bilbo, what is he talking about,” Thorin called up and his voice was sharp, but Bilbo could detect the fearful undertone.

“Please go, Thorin,” he choked out, “get away, please–” He felt a sudden pain on his head and he was knocked to the ground, his cheek against the wet stone of the balcony. Smaug kicked him back, and Bilbo curled in on himself as his ears rang.

“Your Master Baggins is more than what he seems,” Smaug said and there was a note of glee in his voice. “He’s been doing me a great service.”

“No,” Bilbo hissed and forced himself to his feet despite the way his head was spinning. His gaze found Thorin, who was staring at them with his face white as a sheet. “No,   Thorin–”

“He told me all about you,” Smaug said. “Your little trick with Elrond, your latest lodgings. He even brought me pages of your ledger.”

Bilbo was shaking his head, trying to get Thorin to meet his eyes, to look at him so he could explain.

“It wasn’t like that, Thorin–”

“He sold you all out to save his own skin,” Smaug shouted down, loud enough for the Sons in the courtyard to hear; Bilbo’s head was still spinning but he moved forwards, trying to get closer to Thorin, to make him react rather than standing there like a statue–

“Please, Thorin, let me explain–”

“The Shire rat has played you all false,” Smaug said and Bilbo could hear him gloating. “He’d sacrifice you all if it could save himself.”

“Thorin, I swear it’s not true–”

“Tell them the truth, Bilbo,” Smaug hissed. “Tell them what you used to do on those evenings, where you used to go.”

“I – here,” Bilbo said, too muddled to think properly. “To see you.” His cheeks were wet but he couldn’t tell whether it was with rain or his own tears. “But Thorin, it’s not what you think, I swear it–”

“You wear my marks, Master Baggins. You’re my creature, and you betrayed them.”

“ _No,_ ” Bilbo said, more forcefully. He stared at Thorin pleadingly, his eyes beseeching him to understand. Thorin seemed to have turned to stone, standing there unmoving as the rain fell around him; his eyes never left Bilbo but he didn’t react. “I didn’t, I lied – Thorin, please believe me – he forced me, I never meant to hurt you–”

He cried out at the sudden pain in his belly and Bilbo jerked forwards involuntarily, staring down in shock at the handle of the jewelled knife now protruding from his stomach. His blood was mingling with the rainwater as it began to pour out of him and he could feel himself beginning to pitch forward, the edge of the balcony too close and nothing beyond it to stop him going over–

Smaug said nothing behind him, but Bilbo heard Thorin cry out and he knew he was going to fall, he was going to fall–

With sudden ice cold clarity he pulled the knife out from his belly and grabbed hold of Smaug’s crimson robes, bringing him down with him and they both began to fall, plummeting towards the earth, towards the surface of the water. There was no way he could survive a fall from this height, it was too high–

_Come, my little eaglet. Spread your wings, just like this._

He drew the knife across Smaug’s throat as they plunged through the empty air, the churning surface of the River rising to meet them–

_Embrace the air, Bilbo. Air can’t hurt an eagle, not even a baby one._

The iron smell of their blood and the wind were the only things he knew as he shut his eyes and remembered his father teaching him to fly.

 

_End of Part 2_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE DON'T HATE ME <3 <3 <3 <3


	11. The Darkest Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It had only been three days, only seventy-two hours since Thorin's world had stopped, and already it felt like a lifetime._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I REALLY AM SORRY GUYS!!! But remember, this is _me_ writing this - and i don't think I've ever actually written anything genuinely sad in my life, so let that be a comfort to you... :P
> 
> 2\. Happy Easter!!! Here's an extra update for you this week, so I hope you enjoy :D
> 
> Once again I really am sorry for the trauma of last chapter, but I hope this one will at least _sorta_ make up for it...

_**Part 3: Fruition** _

**Chapter XI**

Time seemed to stop, slowing down so that the moment seemed to last a lifetime.

Thorin saw them fall, saw the exact moment gravity claimed Bilbo as he pulled Smaug with him; he saw  Bilbo pull the knife across Smaug’s throat and the way the dark red of his blood went flying like the heavy raindrops; saw the way Bilbo closed his eyes as the ground grew closer. He almost looked peaceful as he flew through the air towards the earth.

He saw it all and there was nothing he could do, his limbs frozen in place, leaving him helpless to do anything other than watch.

He saw as they hit the water, the churning surface swallowing them; he saw them not come back up.

“No,” Thorin cried, a strangled sort of noise leaving him. He couldn’t breathe, his lungs seemed to have stopped working – “No!”

Suddenly his body remembered how to function and he was running across the wall towards the river, scrambling down the other side until he reached the ground. He could hear someone shouting his name, calling at him, but he didn’t know who it was and he didn’t care.

He ran to the water’s edge, Bilbo’s name on his lips though he only had enough air to choke it out, again and again, a mantra – as if by saying it enough times, he’d see Bilbo surface, alive and well–

He waded into the water, his cloak slowing him down, but he kept going, feeling for Bilbo. He had to be there, he had to–

He moved further downstream, tripping as his waterlogged cloak swirled around his feet and he nearly went under himself but managed to right himself; he could hardly see for the rain in his eyes but he kept his arms outstretched, Bilbo’s name still falling from his lips because he had to be here, he had to–

Someone gripped him from behind just as he was about to go deeper and he let out a roar as he tried to fight them off, but it was useless. He turned in a rage, seeing Dwalin gripping his arms tightly.

“Let me go,” Thorin said, again trying to break free from Dwalin’s grip. “I have to find him–”

“He’s not there, Thorin,” Dwalin said and Thorin didn’t want to hear it, couldn’t bear to hear it and again he tried to get away from Dwalin, pushing out to get deeper into the river, but then a second pair of hands grabbed him and Dori was there, the two of them pulling him back to the riverbank. Thorin tried to protest, to get away, but they were too strong and pulled him out of the water, Thorin dropping to his knees and coughing as the river lapped at his boots and rain continued to fall.

The rest of the Sons had appeared on the bank and were watching him; Thorin closed his eyes and wanted to forget them, ignore them all, because _Bilbo was gone_ and how could anything else matter anymore?

Dwalin was pulling him to his feet and Thorin was too distracted to resist, letting himself be led to the others. He felt numb, in shock.

Suddenly a knife appeared in the ground by his left boot; Thorin looked at it, hardly even wondering where it had come from. When a second one skittered off the sodden material of his robes to land harmlessly at his feet Thorin was pushed to one side by Dwalin, Thorin moving without resistance as the Sons started to cry out, their voices one loud blur to Thorin.

He looked up and saw a curly head being held by Bofur and Bifur and for a moment Thorin’s heart soared in sudden hope, but then that head looked up and it was a different face to Bilbo’s that looked at him, hatred burning in eyes that were brown not green and tear tracks running down their face.

“You killed him,” Lobelia snarled, struggling against Bofur and Bifur’s grip on her. “I’ll kill you for this–”

Thorin stared at her with his mouth open, knowing he needed to say something – he hadn’t killed Bilbo, it wasn’t his fault – but the words refused to come and Lobelia seemed to go limp, sobs racking her body.

“He died for _you,”_ she choked out, a venom in her voice that stung Thorin to his core. He stood frozen, letting her words wash over him like waves against the sand, unable to react. It was if his body had turned to stone.  “He was like a _father_ to me and now he’s _gone_ – sacrificed himself for _you–”_

With a sudden cry she whirled around, a knife in her hands and she slashed at the two holding her, who quickly let go, and she bolted back towards the city, away from them. They watched her go, Thorin still unable to move, until her words finally sank in and his knees nearly gave out beneath him, Dwalin the only thing stopping him from landing sprawled against the sandy ground.

“It’s my fault,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “It’s my fault, I killed him–” Panic was setting in and he looked at his hands; he could see red, the red of blood and it was Bilbo’s blood, Bilbo’s, because Lobelia was right and it was his fault Bilbo was dead, his fault Bilbo was there in the first place, _his fault–_

He closed his hands into fists, stopping the tide of emotion that was threatening to take him, to bring him to his knees. All he wanted to do was to let it, let it sweep him away and give in to it but he couldn’t – not when his kin were here, looking to him for guidance. He had to give them it, though he was at a loss as to what guidance to give. He looked to Balin, hoping he’d have the answer, but there were tears shining un-shed in his eyes and for once he was as much at a loss as Thorin.

“Smaug is dead,” Thorin said eventually, his fists clenched at his side. He could almost pretend it was the pain of his nails digging in to his flesh that was the reason for his voice breaking. “Before he – as he–” He breathed in a shuddering breath, forcing himself on, “as they fell, I saw Bilbo kill him.” He bowed his head, screwing his eyes shut. “He did what this quest set out to achieve. Smaug is gone.” _And so was Bilbo; right now Thorin would give anything to have Bilbo back, even if it meant Smaug living, if it meant watching his father and brother die all over again–_

Balin gripped his forearm and pressed their foreheads together, Thorin leaning into that touch as if he was once more a  young man whose grief was still fresh – though it wasn’t so different, only this time it was Thorin’s heart that had died, shattering into a thousand pieces–

“Let’s go home,” Balin said softly. “Smaug is gone. Let’s go home.”

Thorin nodded, his voice refusing to work as they stood there in the pouring rain, trying to work out how he was going to carry on when part of him had died the moment Bilbo had disappeared beneath the water.

 

*

 

Óin gave him poppy milk when they got back to their quarters in Rohan, and Thorin was grateful for the respite from his mind, which kept replaying the same scene over and over again. He couldn’t stop it; he couldn’t get rid of the sight of Bilbo’s body plummeting all that way, so fast, too fast, _too high_ –

He felt sick when he woke up, though for a few glorious moments he couldn’t work out why; when he remembered he couldn’t stop the bile that rose in his throat and he only just reached for his chamber pot in time. He retched until his stomach was spasming, clenching on nothing, and with a shaking hand he wiped his mouth and beard.

How was he going to tell Fíli and Kíli? He’d told them they were going to save him but he was dead, gone – Thorin couldn’t think about Lobelia and little Frodo. It would break that boy to hear his uncle had died, not three days after his parents. Guilt wracked him then and Thorin was grateful there was no one around to see him reduced to a shivering, shaking mess.

There was a sense of quiet desolation settled over the company when Thorin made his way out of his chamber after cleaning himself up, going through the motions mechanically; when Théoden brought Fíli and Kíli back they noticed immediately. Like the coward he was Thorin couldn’t tell them, leaving it to Balin; at his words Kíli’s face crumpled and Fíli turned and fled, Théoden following her out while Thorin held Kíli close as he cried into his robes.

Thorin wanted to mourn, to grieve, but there was a part of him he couldn’t silence; a part of him that whispered his doubts.

_He betrayed you._

No, those had been Smaug’s words, trying to distract them. Bilbo wouldn’t betray them.

_He admitted it – admitted he’d given Smaug information. He admitted to lying to you._

How could Bilbo have done it? How could Smaug have been right? How could Bilbo have kept it a secret?

_He was willing to give you all up to save himself._

Had they really meant that little to him? Had it all been an act?

_He led you there, he knew you’d go after him – he was going to let Smaug kill you–_

But he’d given himself instead. Thorin had seen Smaug stab him with the knife, a cruel smile on his face; Bilbo had known he was going to die, and he’d taken Smaug with him. He’d given up himself to give Thorin his life back – surely that wiped out whatever he may have told Smaug.

And it did, but Thorin couldn’t silence that small part of himself that insisted Bilbo had betrayed them. He couldn’t silence it and he couldn’t mourn; he couldn’t believe he was gone. Even the satisfaction at Smaug’s death was lessened – because even in death, Smaug had managed to take something dear from him.

The next few days were a blur; no one knew what to do next. Smaug was dead, that was what they’d been working towards for the last fifteen years, and now he was dead they had no purpose. Killing Smaug had been Thorin’s reason for breathing, for getting up every day – at least until Bilbo had unwittingly taken on that role when he waltzed into their lives at Gandalf’s invitation a few short months ago. Now they were both gone, and Thorin didn’t know what to do with himself. He had the Sons search the river banks every day, trying to find Bilbo’s body, but it was useless. They never found him.

Two days after Bilbo’s death – sacrifice – whatever it was, Nori brought a wreath to their hideout. It was of oak leaves and acorns, interspersed with little yellow marigolds and in the centre, one bell-shaped flower of dark purple.

There was a note attached.

_We had his ceremony under the oak tree that he loved, under a blue sky with perfect white clouds. He would have been pleased with it._

_In his time with you all he came to care for you. Thank you for making him happy._

_He wouldn’t want us to part on bad terms and so I offer you our friendship. Let us give this fresh start strong roots, so that it might flower all the more beautifully for it._

_The flower is a belladonna, like his mother._

_Lobelia,_

_Master Assassin of the Children of Yavanna._

Thorin had read the note out loud to the rest of the Sons, his voice nearly breaking as he finished.

“Belladonna,” he said, fingering the purple flower. “Deadly nightshade.” He wanted to laugh, it threatened to bubble up and out of him; he put the wreath down and hurried out of the cloying atmosphere of the tunnels until he was sat outside under the sun, the breeze lifting his hair. He laughed until his laughter turned to choked off sobs, and when they’d worn themselves out he simply sat there, feeling the late summer sun warm his skin.

Yes, Bilbo would have been pleased if it had been like this.

The city was in chaos, Thorin never having thought this far ahead. The plan had always been to kill Smaug; he’d never thought about what would come after that. But now the city was leaderless, the Templars either escaping or trying to take Smaug’s place – though there was too many of them, too many clamouring for power and each time one came close to attaining enough support he was found dead the next day. The people of the city were close to rioting, the law gone to hell since the Watch had disbanded, no one there to give them orders or pay their wage. Thorin saw it all but felt nothing as the city seemed to crumble before his eyes – nothing mattered anymore. The city could rot in hell for all he cared.

 

*

 

There were things he had to do, things that would help secure their position once the chaos died down, and yet Thorin couldn’t bring himself to care enough to do any of it. He paced around his study, at times raging against the injustice of it all and at others sunk so low in despair it was all he could do to keep his lungs breathing, in and out.

It was hardest at night, when there was nothing to distract him. His mind wouldn’t stop and the few times he did manage to sleep, he’d wake feeling nauseous and trembling and just as tired as before he’d slept.

Fíli didn’t speak to him for three days. Kíli was still young enough to forgive, to seek comfort in Thorin’s embrace and sometimes he’d come into Thorin’s chamber at night, needing his uncle’s arms around him before he could sleep.

But Fíli blamed him. She wouldn’t look at him, avoided him and spent most of her time up in the inn with Éowyn. Balin reassured him that she’d be fine, she’d forgive him, if he gave her space. It broke Thorin’s heart to see her hurting and yet be unable to do anything, but he did as Balin said and let her grieve in her own way.

Dís had come to see him, her eyes wide and pained; one look at him and she’d opened her arms to him and he’d gone to her, letting her enfold him in an embrace and whisper encouragement as he’d shaken with sobs, bitter things that tore out of his throat painfully. She held him, rocking him gently as he’d done so many years ago when her Víli had been taken.

When he’d stopped she didn’t let go, only held on tighter.

He’d told her everything, everything he’d been trying to deny even to himself – all the things he’d been hiding in an attempt to make them go away. The way he’d felt about Bilbo, how just being near him had made him feel...stronger; he told her what Bilbo had done. She couldn’t change it or make the hurt go away, but with her at his side stroking his hair as if he were a boy again, it hurt a little less.

Just a little, but it was something.

It had only been three days, only seventy-two hours since Thorin’s world had stopped, and already it felt like a lifetime.

He was in his study in the midst of one of his lows, sitting there and reminding his body how to breathe, when there was a knock at the door. Thorin couldn’t summon the breath to send them away and the door opened, revealing Nori.

“Someone’s come to see you,” he said and stepped out of the way to let the visitor enter. Thorin sat up straighter when Gilraen stepped into the room. She gave him a nervous smile.

“Hello, Thorin Oakenshield,” she said and Thorin forced himself to his feet, ushering her to a chair. “You said I should come to you if there was trouble.”

“Are you in danger?” Thorin asked, heart clenching for a moment. Gilraen had been nothing but good to them; if their actions had brought harm to her and her family…

She shook her head. “Not as such. But I came to warn you.”

“Warn us? Of what?” Thorin’s voice was hoarse. He hoped she wouldn’t notice.

She looked a little hesitant but squared her shoulders before speaking. “There’s been wolf packs getting closer to Arda. Normally they don’t stray too far from the mountains, but some of our Rangers have encountered them in the forest.” She looked at Thorin then, her gaze determined. “Something is coming. We don’t know what but it’s likely not something good. I wanted you to know so you can prepare, get out of the city.”

Thorin sat down opposite her. “We weathered Smaug. I’m sure we will weather this also. But thank you.” He offered her a smile, just an upturn of his mouth – it was all he could manage. She seemed to return it, though her features were pinched with worry.

“I must go to the Children now,” she said. “Tell Bilbo. He isn’t here with you?”

Thorin had frozen at the mention of Bilbo’s name and he forced himself to move, turning his head slightly so he didn’t have to look at Gilraen face. Oh, he was a coward.

“No,” he said softly. “He’s not with us anymore.” Gilraen was silent. “He fell from the Tower as he killed Smaug. We couldn’t find his body.”

Gilraen said nothing, only leant forward and rested a hand on her heart, her face contorted with pain.

“No,” she whispered. “No, he can’t be gone – he can’t – Bilbo–”

Thorin gripped her hand and she held it as her tears fell silently. “He was a son to me,” she said in a whisper. “He may not have been a son in blood but he was as good as, even after – after–” she drew in a shuddering breath. “Smaug has taken two sons of mine,” she eventually said, her voice wobbling but not breaking. “Even death was too kind an end for him.”

“I know that well enough,” Thorin said, his head bowed. He wouldn’t tell her about what Smaug had said – what Bilbo had done – let her mourn Bilbo freely. She didn’t deserve the conflict eating at him, gnawing away on his insides and the now stony part of him that was his heart. He felt Gilraen’s eyes on him and looked up, her warm brown gaze sharp.

“He cared for you,” she said. Thorin looked away again. “All of you, but there was something special about you.”           

“He was a good friend to us,” Thorin said, his voice barely more than a whisper. He didn’t want to hear it, _couldn’t_ hear it – what use was it to hear it now? What good would it do? Even if she was right, Bilbo was _gone_ and the knowledge was useless. It would just make it hurt more.

She left after a while, Nori leading her back to Bombur’s inn. Thorin sat at his desk and let despair wash over him, though he didn’t cry. He’d shed all the tears he had already.

Bilbo, Gilraen–

Why was it that people who helped them, people who were kind to them – he brought them only death?

 

*

 

After nearly a week Gandalf appeared, his booming voice sounding pleased through the tunnels until Bilbo didn’t show up.

“Where is Bilbo?” he asked, his bushy eyebrows furrowing together. “Thorin?”

Thorin couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Bilbo is dead. He died as he fell from the Lonely Tower.” No matter how many times he had to say it, it didn’t get any easier.

Gandalf sat heavily in his chair as if winded and suddenly he looked ancient, his face pained and the years etched deeply into his skin. Thorin felt alarmed as his blue eyes welled up with tears and when he spoke again his voice was so close to breaking, so full of pain.

“I knew him since he was naught but a fauntling,” he said and Thorin couldn’t bear the sound of his pain and turned his head sharply away. “I watched him grow, I helped him become Master Assassin.” Tears fell from those blue eyes and Thorin felt his world shift beneath his feet; Gandalf crying was something he never thought he’d see, and yet here he was.

“He’d been working with Smaug,” Thorin said quietly, closing his eyes and ignoring the way his throat prickled. “He’d been telling him information about us.”

Gandalf was silent for a long moment. “There was something he wanted to tell me,” he said eventually. “I could tell it was eating him up from the inside, but I thought it was…” Gandalf looked at Thorin piercingly for a moment. “Whatever he did, he didn’t do it voluntarily, that much I can promise you, Thorin Oakenshield. There must have been a reason for him to do something like that, and I believe he must have believed it was the only way.”

Thorin shook his head and stood, moving to stare at the wall of his study and unconsciously his fingers traced the pattern of the stone.

“He’s dead now,” he said thickly. “There’s nothing we can do to change that now, whatever he may have done.”

He heard Gandalf rise and felt his hand on his shoulder, the warm weight of it comforting. “I know how much this must hurt you,” he said softly and Thorin felt his throat close up.

“He’s gone,” he said shortly. “Whatever I feel – felt – for him, doesn’t matter.” He took a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter.”

Gandalf said nothing to that, only left his hand on Thorin’s shoulder and Thorin felt the tightness in his lungs lessen slightly.

“I have bad news of my own,” he said eventually into the silence. Thorin stiffened.

“What?”

“Something worse than Smaug is on its way here.”

“What do you mean?” Thorin demanded.

“I can’t know for sure, but I believe Smaug was just the beginning. He was being used – the cats-paw for someone worse. Someone even I am afraid of.”

Thorin felt his body go cold at Gandalf’s words.

“Sauron.”

 

*

 

The streets were chaotic. Most people seemed to want to carry on as normal, but there were those who were trying to stir up trouble. Houses had been broken into, people robbed or attacked. Thorin felt a sense of desolation, of hopelessness – he hadn’t worked so hard to free the city from Smaug just for the people to turn on one another.

It had been nearly two weeks since Smaug’s death and there was still an empty space where Thorin’s heart should be, a numbness when he thought of golden curls that once had him falling hard. But it was better to be numb; if he could feel the pain, Thorin would be in agony.

Thorin and the Sons had started to survey the city, going out to each district to see the damage, and once again they were reduced to slipping through the streets unseen. When Thorin had been passing through Dale, thinking hiding unnecessary now, someone had recognised him and it had brought a mob down upon him, people hissing at him and blaming him for the chaos that now ruled Arda. It had left him more than a little shaken.

And now he was in Lake-town, seeing how far the chaos prevailed here. It seemed much as it ever had, Thorin noted; the district had always been a little rough, so the difference perhaps just wasn’t as stark.

He felt a prickling on his neck as he passed by the houses that were built on the river, the feeling of someone watching him. He glanced around, trying to see who it was, but there was nobody who gave him more than a second glance. He carried on his way, though the prickling seemed to grow more intense as he walked.

He froze then, some middle-aged fishmonger letting out a curse and pushing past him as Thorin stopped in the middle of the narrow wooden path above the water. He shook his head and tried to ignore the feeling that had swooped down on him then; but he couldn’t ignore the sudden warmth that seemed to envelope him and the sound of Bilbo’s laugh echoing across the river.

Thorin darted around the houses to the ones on the water, desperately hoping he wasn’t imagining things because _that had sounded like Bilbo!_ – but there was no one there. Nothing to explain the ghostly laughter or the phantom warmth that had run along his body.

“Stupid,” he chastised himself. Bilbo was gone, and wasn’t coming back. The sooner he accepted that fact, the better.

The others seemed to have had a better time moving on: they were able to laugh again, boisterously and loudly; sometimes they’d fall silent after an unthinking comment that brought Bilbo back to the forefront of their minds, but then someone would say something to break it and it’d be back to normal. Bofur and Ori had been quiet for a long while, and Bofur had seemed to regard Thorin strangely whenever he saw him, but his cheerful nature had won out. Thorin wished he could be as carefree as Bofur.

That evening he was in his study as usual, still unable to join in with the others’ cheerfulness, when Fíli appeared in the doorway. Thorin was surprised to see her.

“Fíli,” he said, hoping his voice wouldn’t break. Her chin seemed to wobble for a moment and then she was hurrying across the room, launching herself into his arms and Thorin held her as she cried, feeling the aching remains of his heart ache just a little less.

“I’m sorry, uncle,” she whispered as Thorin rubbed her back. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have blamed you, I’m sorry–”

Thorin made gentle hushing noises, holding her close.

“It’s alright, Fíli,” he murmured. “It’s alright _._ You were hurting. We’re all hurting.”

“But I know what he meant to you,” Fíli said, hiccupping around the words. “And I shouldn’t have blamed you–”

“Fíli,” he said firmly, holding his niece close. “It’s alright. I’ve got you back, that’s what matters to me, _gabrithul.”_

Fíli quietened, clutching at him, and eventually pulled away and offered him a watery smile. Thorin wiped away the tears with his thumb, doing his best to summon a smile for her.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen now,” he said softly. “I couldn’t save Bilbo, but I swear to you Fíli, I swear I will not let anything happen to you or Kíli.” He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I will die before I let anything happen to you.”

He didn’t let himself think about how he’d said the same thing about Bilbo; Bilbo had made his own decisions, had had his own agenda but his niece and nephew… by Mahal he would keep them safe.

Fíli gave him another hug, a sad smile on her face as she wiped her eyes, far too wise for one of her age; she knew he couldn’t promise such a thing – not when he’d promised the same thing to Bilbo, and he was dead.

 

*

 

Gradually the ache of his heart grew easier to ignore; it never stopped aching and there was a permanent tightness to his lungs, as if something was squeezing the very breath from him, but they no longer threatened to drown him, to sweep him under the black tide of despair that lapped at him, ready and waiting. He still woke sometimes in the depths of the night and it felt like he was the only one awake in all the world; his breath would stop and he’d see him falling, cutting through the air too quickly, and the helplessness would make him retch – but those nights grew fewer and further between.

He even sometimes had the strength to spar with Dori or Dwalin. Though he found himself avoiding Dwalin now – his heart was still too raw to let him look upon the gentle tenderness of his interactions with Ori without bitterness and resentment. He didn’t really resent them, not truly – but to see them like that when he’d never be able to tell Bilbo just how much he meant to him: that was what hurt. That, and the way it made his belly burn with jealousy. He’d had one night with Bilbo, one night, and now he’d have no more. He still felt sick with longing sometimes.

He saw them one night as he headed to bed – the others had all gone to bed already but Thorin had been with Balin. As he passed the common room he heard low voices; intrigued as to who was still up, he peered around the doorway.

They were silhouetted against the fire, a book lying open but forgotten on Ori’s lap and Dwalin’s hands were holding his head gently. He couldn’t see their expressions or make out their words, but Ori was saying something and it made Dwalin laugh, a rough chuckle; and then they were leaning in and kissing. He could hear their breathing, the soft sounds of their lips meeting, and Thorin couldn’t stand it. He hurried away as silently as he could, irrational fury boiling in him. It wasn’t _fair,_ _why_ had Bilbo been taken from him? Why did Dwalin deserve happiness where Thorin seemed cursed?

Just as he grew used to the pain in his heart, he gradually managed to ignore the hatred that burned when he saw them together. It wasn’t their fault.

Dwalin seemed to notice and out of a respect for Thorin they hid it as much as they could when he was present; but, Thorin thought sadly, he knew well enough that you couldn’t hide love forever. He wondered what might have happened if he’d been worse at hiding his own love – perhaps things would be very different.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps Bilbo would still be gone, only he’d have left to get away from him because he didn’t return his feelings.

Maybe this way was best after all, Thorin decided.

 

*

 

Soldiers in black armour started appearing in the city over the next few weeks. No one knew who their master was; they simply appeared, caused a stir in one district or another – no one knew quite what happened, only that after they’d disappeared into the night people’s homes would be destroyed and sometimes those people would be dead.

The Sons had an inkling as to who was behind these attacks: Sauron. If Gandalf was right, Arda would soon have worse things to worry about than Smaug or greedy Templars. He desperately hoped Gandalf was wrong.

They went and investigated whenever there was news of them appearing, going to see if they could stop them or at least confirm who they were, who had sent them.

It served as a distraction from the thoughts that swirled around his head as soon as he stopped; if he kept busy, he could keep them at bay, almost ignore them.

This time they’d been seen in Lake-town and Thorin and Dwalin headed there, slipping unnoticed through the crowds. They stopped to ask various people about the soldiers – a wizened old fruit seller, her skin weathered by the wind; a young lad trading metal pots. Their answers made Thorin pause.

They all told the same story: that the soldiers had come with no warning, cutting down people who got in their way and destroying houses.

“But then the white shadow came,” the lad said with a shrug.

“The white shadow?” Thorin asked. “What’s that?”

“No-one knows,” the old lady had said with a shake of her head. “It’s just that, a shadow. Comes out of nowhere.”

“Fights them off,” the lad told them. “Or at least spooks them so they run away. It disappears too quick for anyone to see it though.”

They made their way to the site of the latest disturbance, Thorin puzzled by this news of a white shadow. It couldn’t be anything supernatural, it had to be something human...didn’t it?

When they got there they found a row of houses part collapsed, beams falling down and the house fronts part torn off, but compared to the other incidents – houses had been completely destroyed, burnt up to a crisp – this was tame. Fixable. Was that thanks to this white shadow?

“Thorin,” Dwalin said suddenly, breaking into Thorin’s thoughts. “Look.”

He stepped forward inside the broken house, his hand reaching forwards towards a beam lying across the splintered staircase. There was something carved on it, something branded onto the wood.

An eye.

Thorin’s blood turned cold and he caught Dwalin’s eye, the other man’s expression grim.

“Gandalf is righ’,” he said and Thorin nodded, his eyes trailing back to the burnt eye. The sigil of Sauron.

“I’d hoped he was wrong,” Thorin said, drawing his hand back. “But he’s right. Sauron is coming to Arda.”

“Come on,” Dwalin said. “It’s givin’ me the shivers. Let’s get back and tell the others.”

Thorin froze, feeling the same prickling on his neck as he had last time he was in Lake-town and he looked around, but again there was no one there.

Unbidden, Bilbo’s face flashed across his mind – Bilbo as he’d been when they’d been friends, his expression soft as his eyes danced with warmth. Thorin nearly stumbled at the sudden ache in his heart.

“Ye alrigh’?” Dwalin asked, concerned.

“He’s here,” Thorin said hoarsely. “Dwalin, Bilbo’s here, I can feel him.”

“Thorin, he’s not here,” Dwalin said, gripping Thorin’s forearm tightly. “Mahal knows I wish ‘e was too bu’ we saw ‘im fall. We saw him hit the water.”

Thorin swallowed around the lump in his throat, not wanting to hear Dwalin’s reason even if he _knew_ he was right. He was sure he could feel Bilbo’s presence.

Perhaps it was simply wishful thinking. After all, Bilbo had history with Lake-town. He forced himself to ignore it and carry on as before, refusing to think about Bilbo in an attempt to stop the pain that threatened to take him if he let his guard down for even a moment.

But soon the white shadow seemed to have spread to Dale, to Erebor and Mirkwood, and whenever they went to investigate Thorin felt that same prickling feeling of being watched.

He wasn’t going mad, he was sure of that fact.

So he decided to take Lobelia up on her offer and visit her in the name of friendship between their two Orders. After all, if Sauron really was coming to Arda, the Children should know.

Autumn had arrived by the time he’d worked up the courage to visit the Shire, the leaves of the trees turning golden and floating to the ground in the brisk breeze.

As he walked towards the little hills, Thorin let his fingers brush the handkerchief Bilbo had given him just over a month ago, the night they’d spent in the Shire after his cousins’ funerals. Thorin hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, but now he realised Bilbo must have known he was going to die – or at least had considered it a possibility. Thorin hadn’t been able to look at it since his death, keeping it shut away and locked up in the bottom drawer of his desk – the memories were far too painful – but he brought it out now: a piece of Bilbo, a promise.

Almost guiltily, Thorin brought the square of linen up to his nose; though it had been sitting in a drawer for a month, he could almost imagine it still smelt of Bilbo. He knew that was ridiculous, impossible, but he didn’t care.

Lobelia welcomed him in, noticing the handkerchief clutched in his hand.

“I’m glad you could come,” she said, and she sounded genuine. Thorin remembered the hatred in her eyes as she’d thrown her knives at him, rain pouring down around them. She seemed to be thinking the same thing as she looked uncomfortable for a moment and turned to make a pot of tea. “I’m sorry for what I said that night,” she said then.

“You don’t have to apologise,” Thorin said.

“I think I do,” Lobelia said. “I know how much you all meant to him.”

“Well,” Thorin said awkwardly. They were silent as she poured the tea.

“He just… he always seemed so certain. So sure that everything would work out, that it would be alright.” She took a sip of her tea and stared into the depths of it. “I can’t believe he’s dead, even now.”

Thorin let out a breath before he spoke again.

“What if he’s not?”

Lobelia looked up with a jerk. “What?”

Thorin clutched his mug tighter, letting the warmth of it comfort him. “What if he’s not dead?”

“Why…” Lobelia’s face had gone pale. “What have you heard? Why would you say that?”

“Nothing,” Thorin said hurriedly. “Well – something. There’s been talk of a white shadow in Arda, protecting people from the soldiers–”

“That could be anything,” Lobelia said sharply.

“It could,” Thorin said, hunching in on himself. “But – sometimes I feel him, Lobelia. It’s – it’s as if he’s there, only I’m too slow to spot him.”

Lobelia’s expression softened then. “That doesn’t mean he’s alive, Thorin.” Thorin hated the way she said it, as it he was a small child imagining monsters under the bed.

“But we never found a body,” Thorin argued, imploring her to understand. “I had my men searching every day, all along the river and the beaches – surely we’d have found a body.”

“But you didn’t find Smaug’s either,” Lobelia pointed out, shaking her head so her curls bobbed about her face. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Thorin could feel his hope running out. The little glow of hope he’d kept nestled in his chest, hidden from sight but guarded closely – with every word Lobelia spoke Thorin could feel the darkness of despair threatening to extinguish it.

“But – But Bilbo could fly,” Thorin said desperately, wanting her to understand. Bilbo could be _alive_ – surely she would want that?

Lobelia’s expression was one of pity and Thorin couldn’t stand it, his hands clutching the mug so hard his knuckles turned white. He couldn’t look at her.

“Thorin, no one could survive a fall from that height,” she said softly. “Not even Bilbo. It was too high. It would have been like landing on solid rock.”

Thorin slumped forward, all the fight leaving him. Lobelia was right; there was no way Bilbo could be alive. And yet part of him refused to believe it – he’d _felt_ him, that day in Lake-town. The alternative was that Thorin was going mad, seeing ghosts where there were none, and that possibility frightened him.

He felt Lobelia rest a hand on his arm and he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. He’d thought she’d believe him, that he could confide his jealously-guarded hope in someone and have them share it, but evidently even Lobelia had accepted that Bilbo was gone. Why couldn’t Thorin, and save himself this heartache?

“You’re right,” he said eventually, his voice wooden. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

“No, Thorin,” Lobelia said, her voice gentle. “I’m sorry, I wish I could have hope like you. But… there’s been too much death here, and I have to move on. For Frodo.”

Thorin winced at the boy’s name. “How is he?” he asked, guilt flowing through him.

Lobelia gave a small shrug. “He took it remarkably well, all things considered. He still wakes in the night, but he’s stopped asking when his Uncle is coming back.”

Thorin couldn’t imagine the strength of this little boy, carrying on after losing his three closest family members. “He’s incredibly brave,” he said.

Lobelia said nothing for a moment, cradling her mug between her hands; suddenly she set it down and stood.

“Come,” she said. “He’s outside. We can say hello.”

Thorin wasn’t at all sure if he wanted to – he felt guilty, so guilty – if he’d only been able to react faster, ignore his own feelings, perhaps Bilbo wouldn’t be dead and this boy would still have an uncle–

But Lobelia was gesturing for him to follow and Thorin had no choice but to do so, though his limbs felt wooden as he moved. Lobelia led him through the house – _smial_ , Bilbo had called it – to the back door, and out into the autumn air. It was brisk, almost chilly.

“Frodo,” Lobelia called, leading Thorin around the corner. “We have a guest. Come and say hello.” As they turned the corner Thorin caught sight of the oak tree and his steps faltered – was this the tree Lobelia had meant? The one they had his ceremony under? There was a movement near the ground and only then did Thorin notice the small form nestled between the roots, wrapped up in an overly large woollen jumper.

At Lobelia’s words, the boy stood up and waited for them, his cheeks and nose pink with cold but eyes wide with curiosity as he regarded Thorin.

“Are you reading again?” Lobelia asked him, ruffling his curls and adjusting his jumper, pulling it tighter around him. Frodo nodded, his dark curls bouncing around his head.

“Uncle likes it when I read to him,” Frodo said. Lobelia glanced at Thorin, whose heart wanted to break for this little boy.

“You remember Thorin, don’t you?” she asked him and again Frodo nodded, even sending Thorin a bright smile.

“You were Uncle Bilbo’s friend,” he said and Thorin nodded, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Bilbo’s friend; and that was all he’d ever be.

“You can talk for a little bit,” Lobelia said. “I’ll just be inside. And Frodo, you come in when it gets cold, alright?” She touched a finger to his pink nose, drawing another smile from him. “I’ll make you cocoa.”

She turned and headed back inside, leaving Thorin alone with Frodo.

“Shall I show you my books?” Frodo piped up. “They were my Uncle’s favourites.”

“Were they?” Thorin asked, joining Frodo on the ground. His back met the firmness of the oak tree behind him and his throat closed up for a moment.

“Yes,” Frodo said matter-of-factly. He handed one to Thorin. “This one’s my favourite too. Uncle Bilbo said his papa used to read it to him when he was little.”

Thorin took the book the lad was handing him. _The tales of Gwaihir & Roäc. _It was an old tome, evidently well loved: the cover was worn, the binding well-creased and starting to come loose; the pages were soft to touch. He carefully opened the cover and felt a pressure squeezing at his lungs, sucking away his breath so that for a moment all he could do was stare at the page before him.

In a child’s uneven writing, the letters so carefully and painstakingly drawn, was Bilbo’s name. He let his fingers trace the ink, once black and now faded to a soft brown with age.

“This was his?” Thorin asked, his voice hushed.

Beside him, Frodo nodded, his curls brushing Thorin’s arm. “It’s about a really big eagle,” he said. Thorin felt the lump in his throat grow bigger as he remembered Bilbo standing before him, a bronze leaf stuck in his curls as he told him about eagles and flying.

“He told me about this,” he said. “The eagle was so big it could carry men on its back. It helped a King reclaim his home.”

Frodo nodded again. “The eagle meets a raven – the raven is Roäc – and the raven is really grumpy at first because he doesn’t trust the eagle, but after the eagle saves him they become friends,” Frodo told him sagely. He was fiddling with the other books on his lap but Thorin couldn’t stop staring at this book, this book that Bilbo had held, read, loved.

“It sounds like a wonderful story,” Thorin said, carefully shutting the book.

“I come out here to read now,” Frodo said. “Lobelia says this way Uncle will hear.”

“Lobelia is very wise,” Thorin said.

Frodo made a noise, as if of disagreement. “She says he’s gone forever, that he’ll never come back. But he will.”

“Frodo,” Thorin said, the lump in his throat making his voice hoarse.

“You don’t believe me either, do you?” Frodo sighed, as if weary. It was a heavy sigh to come from one so small. “You think I’m being silly too.”

“Not at all,” Thorin said, his heart thudding painfully. “I think you’re a very sharp little lad.”

Frodo looked at him and his gaze was piercing and bright. “You think he’ll come back? He told me he would. He said I had to be patient though.”

“When did he tell you this?” Thorin enquired mildly, ignoring the way his heartbeat had quickened.

“Last week,” Frodo said, unconcerned, and began flicking through the pages of his book. “I don’t remember really. But I know he told me. Lobelia doesn’t like it when I tell her.”

“She misses your uncle very much,” Thorin said. “She wants him back as much as you and I do.”

“He’ll come,” Frodo said with an air of certainty. “I know he will. Uncle never breaks his promises.” He settled back against the oak tree and handed Thorin another book. “Would you like to read this one?”


	12. A Red Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“What if I told you that I’d done something? Something terrible? Would you be able to forgive me, even if it had hurt you?”_
> 
> _“I think… I think that whatever you’ve done, it’s not as bad as you believe it is. Not if you did it for the right reasons.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, the internet in my flat is really crappy and cut out all of yesterday D: but here you go!! I promise this chapter will make you feel better <3 <3 at least for a little bit anyway, heh. Again thank you all you wonderful people who continue to read and leave kudos and comment - you're all amazing <3

**Chapter XII**

All around him was darkness, an empty void of blackness pressing in on him, making it hard to breathe. He couldn’t move – his legs wouldn’t obey him, his feet rooted to the ground. He didn’t know how long the darkness lasted, only that he couldn’t remember what light looked like. He knew there was such a thing, but he couldn’t imagine it. His world was this darkness.

And then he started to hear things, ghostly voices appearing at the edges of his consciousness, whispered as if brought to him on a breeze from very far away; distorted, as if he was underwater.  He couldn’t work out what they were saying. Gradually the voices grew clearer and he could pick out words, words he knew: _Arda. Smaug. Dead._

He knew what the words meant. He knew what it was to be dead, he knew Arda was his home, he knew Smaug was–

Smaug–

Suddenly he could _feel –_ his entire body felt as if it was burning, as if there were flames licking at his flesh, melting it off his bones; underneath the burning pain there were spots of prickling heat, the feeling of cold liquid running down his skin and he knew it was blood; he could feel the ache of a bruise on his wrist, around his upper arm – that was Smaug, Smaug had claimed him and left his marks–

A pained cry escaped him and his eyes flew open, unseeing; he had to get away, he wouldn’t let Smaug take him again – but his limbs were like lead and refused to move, it hurt to breathe, to cry out – hands were gripping him and he tried to struggle, to free himself but it was no use.

The hands holding him were strong but gentle, keeping him in place but not gripping tight enough to hurt; the voice that was making hushing noises wasn’t the cruel silken hiss of Smaug but someone kind, their voice rough but comforting.

He forced himself to focus on that voice, to listen to their words.

“You’re safe now, safe. Hold still now. You’re safe.”

He was safe. He made himself relax, let his muscles go limp and he could breathe again, though it still pained him with every breath. He blinked and the world started to come into focus, colours and light breaking through the darkness he’d been surrounded by. There was a face hovering over him and he let his eyes drift to it, taking in the dark hair and the bright blue eyes looking at him in concern. He knew a face like that.

“Thorin?” he whispered, the name ghosting off his lips. He didn’t know where it had come from, only that it was important.

“No,” the man said, and his voice was soft. “I’m Bard.”

He didn’t know that name.

“I’m Bilbo,” he said. “Bilbo Baggins.”

 

*

 

Bard helped him sit up, explaining that he’d been wounded.

“You’re lucky not to be dead,” he said. “You’d lost so much blood when we found you, I thought you were dead at first.”

Bilbo frowned as memories started to come flooding back. He remembered being up in Smaug’s tower, the man sticking a knife into him and the feeling of nothing beneath him as they fell; he remembered his father’s words echoing in his mind and the way acceptance had swept over him as the river had grown closer.

But he didn’t remember landing, he didn’t remember hitting the water; but surely if he had hit the water, he’d be dead? He forced himself to think, desperately searching his memory – there was so much that was blank, so many dark spaces in his mind that scared him to go near – and eventually he remembered that he’d been holding onto Smaug as they’d fallen. He’d slit Smaug’s throat with his own knife and hadn’t let go; it must have been Smaug who’d hit the water first, breaking Bilbo’s own landing.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind were memories, was the story of everything that had happened, but it was like they were locked away and Bilbo didn’t have the key anymore. When he tried to go near them they seemed to try to break out, to escape, and suddenly Bilbo felt things he didn’t want to – there was pain contained in those memories – heartbreak, fear. He didn’t want to feel those things, and he shied away from them.

Bard was kind. He gave Bilbo poppy milk to help him sleep, and when Bilbo woke again there was a young boy and an older girl standing at the foot of the bed, watching him closely.

“Hello,” he said, voice croaky.

They glanced at each other before the older girl spoke.

“I’m Sigrid,” she said. “This is my brother Bain.” Bilbo could see the boy had the same colouring as Bard, the same strong jaw. Evidently they were his children. He gave them a small smile and Sigrid helped him sit up again, Bain bringing him a tray with a bowl of steaming soup and placing it on his lap. He couldn’t feel the weight of it resting on his legs, which was odd; he ignored it and let Sigrid help him eat the soup, putting aside his dignity. While he ate, he noticed another small head poke around the door, eyes wide; he smiled.

“Hello there,” he said softly, and Sigrid looked around to see what he was looking at.

“Tilda,” she said sharply and the head started to retreat.

“No, it’s alright,” he said. “You can come in.” Shyly the head reappeared, this time followed by a body. It was a young girl, with a head of messy curls, wearing a worn pinafore.

“Hello,” she said quietly, regarding him with interest. “I’m Tilda.”

“Lovely to meet you, Tilda,” Bilbo said seriously. “I’m Bilbo.”

Tilda stepped closer, eyeing her older sister cautiously but her gaze soon returning to rest on Bilbo.

“Da says you’re poorly.”

Bilbo gave a small smile. “He’s probably right,” he said cheerfully. “But you’re all looking after me, and I’ll be right as rain soon enough, you’ll see.”

Tilda seemed satisfied with that and opened her mouth to say something else, but then Bard’s voice rang through the house calling her name and she scampered off. Bilbo watched her go, smiling fondly.

He slept again after he’d eaten, and when he woke again it was daylight. He could hear noise and chatter from outside, the sounds of boats and vendors and children running down Lake-town’s narrow paths. Bard brought him a thin porridge when he noticed he was awake.

When he was done and Bard had taken away the tray, he came back clutching something. He sat on the chair beside Bilbo’s bedside, glancing down at whatever he held in his hands.

“I meant to give these to you when you woke up before,” he said. “It’s what you had with you when we found you.”

“How _did_ you find me?” Bilbo asked. “I don’t remember it at all.”

“Aye, you wouldn’t. You were half dead from blood loss and near drownin’,” Bard said, his mouth set in a grim line. “I was out on my barge, early – the sun hadn’t yet come up – when my oar knocked something and suddenly Bain was yelling about there bein’ someone in the water.”

Bilbo shook his head. Bard said nothing, instead handing him whatever he was holding.

Bilbo took it and stared down it, uncomprehending for a few moments before he recognised it. It was a belt – _his_ belt – with its built in pouch. There were things inside it and he opened the pouch, seeing his knife and darts inside, along with a couple of small vials of liquid – they’d survived the fall too. He felt relief flood through him as he saw the items and _remembered_ them; it was scary, having such blank spaces in his memory.

“There were herbs too. We dried them out for you.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo said softly, holding the knife in his hands, testing its weight. It felt comforting in his palm, a familiar feeling.

There was one more thing in the pouch and he pulled it out; an acorn carved of wood. He frowned at it, running his hands over its surface; it had been slightly warped by the water and the way it had dried, feeling slightly brittle to touch. It was amazingly lifelike, the craftsmanship superb; why did he have it? He felt like the answer lay somewhere behind one of those locked doors in his mind, the ones that he was scared to try and open.

It was something important though, he knew that much. If he could work out why he had this, he would remember the rest, he was sure.

After Bard left him, Bilbo lay there, trying to remember.

He knew some things: he knew he was Bilbo Baggins. He knew he was a Child of Yavanna, had been the Master Assassin. He knew he lived in the Shire, in his smial with an oak tree in the garden and a smart green door; and he knew he’d killed Smaug.

There was so much that was missing.

He was saved from thinking too much about it when Bard and Tilda came into see him. Tilda chattered excitedly about anything and everything, though sometimes she’d stop and glance at him as if she’d done something wrong; but when he nodded and smiled she’d continue on just as happily as before. Bain was a quiet boy, perhaps thirteen or fourteen; he didn’t say much but he cared for his sisters and he was intrigued by Bilbo, though too shy to ask him questions outright. The oldest, Sigrid, kept herself to herself mostly; when she did talk to Bilbo it usually to ask him if he was comfortable or to bring him food.

Bilbo had panicked when he’d wanted to use the chamber pot and had tried to get up, being careful of the wound on his stomach that still felt raw and tender, but had found his legs didn’t follow him and had ended up toppling out of the bed, landing heavily on the wooden floor, winded and in shock.

Sigrid had come rushing in and helped him up, her eyes apologetic as she’d explained what was wrong.

“Your legs aren’t broken,” she said. “Da says there’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to walk again.”

“Why aren’t they working?” Bilbo asked, aghast and feeling as though he was about to burst into tears. He was a Child – he could move silently, quickly, stealthily, except now he was lame. He couldn’t walk at all.

“We don’t know,” Sigrid said, sounding genuinely upset. “Da said...maybe it’s to do with the things you can’t remember. That they’re linked.”

Bilbo hadn’t said anything to that, his insides feeling like jelly. After Sigrid left he lay staring up at the ceiling as the sky outside grew dark. He turned his head and his gaze fell on the little wooden acorn sitting on the bedside table; he reached for it and held it, feeling its smoothness and the weight of it as it sat in his palm, his thumb tracing the pattern of the wood.

Bilbo had no skill for carving beyond his darts, especially not something as fine as this, it must have been given to him – but by who? And why? What did it _mean?_

He needed to remember, and soon.

 

*

 

Soon Bilbo was feeling strong enough to let Bain help him out of bed, and he sat at the window of Bard’s house on the lake, watching the world pass and trying to stop himself feeling so useless. Tilda would sit with him sometimes, Sigrid not too far away and even though she didn’t join in their conversation, Bilbo could tell she was listening eagerly to the stories Bilbo would make up for Tilda.

One day, two weeks since Bard had found him, they were in their usual spot by the window enjoying the last of the summer sunshine – autumn was creeping up on them and Bilbo knew that the Shire would be bountiful, the trees still thick with leaves but sometimes the breeze would be brisk, and a leaf would fly loose. There were no trees here, but Bilbo would still breathe in the fresh air.

He watched as birds circled up in the air, black shapes against the blue sky. He heard the cawing of a raven and all of a sudden there was a flash and the sudden warmth of warm blankets and cocoa, and he remembered his father reading him a story, the pages crisp beneath his pudgy fingers.

“Are you alright, Bilbo?” Sigrid asked, watching him in sudden concern.

Bilbo shook his head as if to clear it. “Yes, I’m fine. I just remembered something. Tilda, how about I tell you another story?”

Tilda nodded enthusiastically and settled in across from him, her feet swinging from her chair.

“It’s the story of an eagle,” he said slowly, the words coming to him as if from very far away but familiar on his tongue, as if he’d told it before. “An eagle called Gwaihir. Guess how big he is, Tilda.”

Tilda frowned. “Big as an eagle?”

Bilbo smiled and shook his head. “He’s bigger than you,” he said. “Bigger than me! He’s so big he could carry you and your da on his back both at the same time. Gwaihir liked nothing more than flying, soaring above the mountains where he lived. But Gwaihir was lonely. He lived all alone in his Eyrie, too big to join in with all the other eagles who were scared of him.”

“That’s sad,” Tilda said, and she sounded troubled. She gazed upwards out of the window, looking at the birds in the sky.

“It is,” Bilbo agreed. “But he was content enough, looking out for his smaller cousins. And then one day he met a raven. This raven’s name was Roäc, and he was immediately wary of Gwaihir, who was so much bigger than him.”

Tilda was looking at him with wide eyes and Bilbo saw that even Sigrid had put down the shirt she was stitching in order to listen better.

“Roäc was lost. He’d been separated from the rest of his flock by a storm and his wing had been injured, so Gwaihir offered to help him. Roäc agreed, though he was very grumpy all the time that Gwaihir fixed his poor wing and brought him food! He just wanted to be reunited with his family and friends, and as soon as he was better he flew off with barely a thank you to the eagle.

“But Gwaihir had enjoyed having someone else around, and he followed Roäc, knowing that the lands around the Eyrie could be dangerous. And sure enough, as Roäc flew over a village a poacher thought to catch him for his dinner!”

He smiled at Tilda’s wide eyes.

“Luckily for Roäc, Gwaihir was there to rescue him from the poacher. And the raven realised that the eagle was a friend indeed. He apologised for his bad manners and agreed to join Gwaihir, thanking him for saving his life a second time. Together they flew back to Gwaihir’s eyrie, best of friends, and thanks to Roäc all the other eagles were brave enough to be kind to Gwaihir too. And many years later, when the Eagle and raven were much older, they helped a king to reclaim his home – but that’s another story, for another time,” Bilbo smiled, laughing as Tilda begged him to tell her more.

It felt so homely, so familiar, and Bilbo couldn’t stop the laughter bubbling out of him, carrying out across the water.

Blue eyes flashed through his mind, making his breath catch for a moment; he saw raven hair streaked with grey, but then the image was gone just as quickly as it had appeared and he shook his head, trying to clear his mind of it. But those eyes didn’t leave him and even later as he lay in bed, he could see them in his mind’s eye; they seemed to look right at him, searching for something and for a moment the doors in his mind seemed to rattle threateningly – but then they quietened and Bilbo breathed again.

He knew he needed to remember. He felt as if he was missing a part of himself, of his very being; with each day that passed and he grew no closer to remembering he started to think he never would.

 

*

 

Bard’s face was grim when he returned from his fishing the next day, though he did his best to hide it from Tilda and Bain.

Bilbo saw through him right away.

“What’s happened?” he asked that evening, while the children were getting ready for bed. Sigrid was making them tea.

Bard shook his head. “You know Smaug is dead,” he said slowly.

“Yes,” Bilbo said. “I remember killing him.” Sigrid handed him a mug full of sweet warm tea and he took it gratefully, wishing he could move his legs and sit more comfortably in his chair.

“Well, there’s chaos in the city now, Bilbo. People are scared, there’s people stirring trouble – everyone thinks it’s the Sons of Durin’s fault and now there are soldiers coming into the city –”

Bilbo didn’t hear the last half of what Bard said; he froze, lost his grip on his mug and watched as it fell from his grasp, spilling over the blanket tucked around his legs and over the floor as the mug rolled away. Bard and Sigrid had leapt to help, fetching cloths and new blankets but Bilbo wasn’t aware of any of it.

 _The Sons of Durin._ He knew that. He knew what they were. They were assassins, like himself–

The dark spaces in his mind were suddenly shifting, images appearing and disappearing through his mind so quickly it took his breath away – though they were puffs of smoke, intangible, running away as he tried to get a better look.

“Here you go,” Bard was saying as he placed a new blanket on Bilbo’s knees but Bilbo gripped his forearm, looking at him pleadingly.

“The Sons of Durin,” he said desperately. “They – I–”

He couldn’t speak for a moment as images assaulted him, as clear as if it was all happening right in front of him:

Gandalf appearing on his doorstep and announcing his plan.

A meeting in an alley, watching them in their blue cloaks from the rooftops.

Curious eyes on him as they’d been introduced to him – their names started to come back to him – Ori, Dori, Bofur–

Breaking into Weathertop–

The Feast of Starlight–

Chasing a Dunlending ship–

Escaping to the Shire – and there were those piercing blue eyes again, raven hair with streaks of grey and braids at the temples; a wound on his chest and warm hands on Bilbo’s skin and a smile on his face and the taste of ale on his tongue in the darkness, Bilbo’s name on his lips–

_Thorin._

Bilbo simply sat there, letting the memories wash over him with agonising clarity as he remembered it all, remembered everything.

The way Thorin had been able to comfort him–

Rescuing Elrond–

Smaug leaving marks on his skin, Thorin’s gentle hands tracing them in shock–

The ghostly light of the Arkenstone–

The acorn, Bofur’s smile in the firelight–

Prim and Drogo lying in their own blood with their throats cut, the scent of the honeysuckle in Lobelia’s crown at their funeral and the warmth of little Frodo as he slept, blissfully unaware–

He only realised he was shaking when Bard placed another blanket around his shoulders and Bilbo didn’t protest, feeling sick to his stomach. How could he have forgotten all of that? How could so much have disappeared from his memory, only now coming back?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered through bloodless lips. “I’m sorry, I–”

“Bilbo,” Bard said sharply and Bilbo looked up at him, focussing on him rather than the agony that was threatening to come crashing down upon him. “It’s alright. Are _you_ alright?”

“I remember,” he said, his voice shaky. “I remember it all.” Bard gripped his hand and Bilbo focused on the feel of that, letting it anchor him to the present. “I… I think I’d like to go to bed. And have some poppy milk.”

Bard nodded and helped Bilbo to the bed; he may have remembered but his legs were still dead weights attached to him. Bilbo couldn’t even think about that though, all the memories rushing around his head. He was grateful when Bard gave him the poppy milk and they settled down, resting somewhere in the back of his mind. He’d have to deal with them in the morning, sort through them and face the emotion only just being held back; but until then, he would sleep.

 

*

 

When he woke Bilbo almost felt...peaceful. Finally, he could remember. It was going to be difficult, but it was better to know. It was better than the constant feeling of missing something, of wondering.

Absently he scratched at his leg where the sheets were itching him, and then he froze – he hadn’t had feeling in his legs since he woke up two weeks ago. Hesitantly he pointed his toes; his muscles obeyed without question. A gasp of relief left him in a rush.

Carefully he bent his knees, wiggled his toes, ran his hands along his legs to make sure he wasn’t dreaming; when he managed to sit up and swing his legs out of bed he nearly cried in relief.

Now he had to face up to the memories.

It broke his heart remembering: his poor cousins, little Frodo. He felt such guilt – it had been his fault they died, Smaug deciding to teach him a lesson–

Smaug. Bilbo felt his scars prickle even just at the thought of the man. He remembered that first time in the tower, bloodied and beaten as he’d been; the subsequent meetings and the guilt that had built up inside him, threatening to burst out any moment.

He remembered sitting with the Sons in their living quarters, so comfortable and at ease as they told Fíli and Kíli stories. It made his insides squeeze tightly to remember them – they must all think he was dead – they knew what he’d done–

But they had their lives back, and that was what they’d been working for.

But the one Son he couldn’t think about was Thorin. He avoided letting the man into his thoughts – Bilbo was too much of a coward to face the mixed emotions Thorin elicited in him. Yavanna, Bilbo knew he loved him – just the way his heart seemed to stutter painfully every time he appeared in Bilbo’s mind was enough to tell him that, never mind the way it left him feeling hot and bothered, his fingertips tingling and longing coursing through him. It also left him shaky with guilt and fear.

He couldn’t see the Sons again. Not now.

He’d go home to the Shire; hope Frodo wouldn’t be too confused by his reappearance and settle into a quiet life. With Smaug gone, there should be little to disturb them in the quiet haven of the Shire. It’d be best for everyone that way. The Sons had their lives back, they could stop being hunted. They could live out in the world again.

They didn’t need him anymore.

When Bilbo had made up his mind on that fact, he focused on getting strong again until he was chasing Tilda around the little wooden house. He was looking forward to getting back to Frodo, to sitting in his garden under his oak tree.

He should have known it wouldn’t last.

The soldiers Bard had spoken of the night Bilbo remembered – the ones Bilbo hadn’t paid attention to, too lost in the tie of memories – had got worse. They were razing houses, killing people; worst of all it seemed to be for sport.

And so Bilbo went out into the world for the first time in three weeks and fetched the spare cloak he’d always kept with Thranduil. The man had been shocked to see Bilbo – looking as if he’d seen a ghost – but eventually had been convinced it was truly him. Bilbo had pulled on the robes, tightened his belt and pouch; the familiar weight of them making him feel strong again.

Thranduil had given him new herbs, more vials of poison, even some darts. Bilbo had his small knife; he’d bought a crossbow from an arms shop in Dale. When he saw his reflection in the river, hood pulled low over his eyes and weapons ready, he felt like himself again. He felt powerful. He would stop these soldiers and then he would go _home._

It felt strange to be out again, though perhaps what was stranger was being on his _own_. He’d spent the best part of half a year with the Sons; he’d rarely been alone during that time. He didn’t let himself think of evenings spent sitting with Thorin, the way he’d managed to pull laughs from the solemn man and how they’d transformed his face, the sound of his voice – if he thought of those things his resolve would fail, and he couldn’t let that happen.

He couldn’t go back. Not now.

The soldiers were everywhere in the city, their black armour distinctive. There were normally only groups of two or three, but towards nightfall they’d start to amass and there’d be a group of twenty or so which would descend and wreak havoc.

He tracked a pair through the streets from the citadel out to Greenwood; from his position up on the rooftops he took aim with his crossbow and fired bolts at the tiny weak point between the chest plate and the helmet. They dropped to the ground and Bilbo fled, not wanting to be caught anywhere near the scene.

He continued to do this, picking them off in their pairs; a couple of times he let them congregate in their larger group before sending a dart into the flame of the torch one carried; it had been dipped in a venom known to cause hallucinations, and as it burned and the soldiers breathed in the fumes they turned on one another, drawing their blades and paying no attention to anything else, making them easy targets for Bilbo’s crossbow.

Bard seemed excited by Bilbo’s progress – the attacks seemed to lessen, for sure.

But then they came to Lake-town and Bilbo’s heart was in his mouth – what if it was Bard’s house that was destroyed? If it was him and his children who were left homeless or dead?

They were setting buildings on fire as they went, their boisterous cheers sounding through the narrow canals and their torches bright in the darkness. Bilbo had to stop them–

There were fewer of them than normal – only perhaps eight. He had to stop them, even if it was just to slow them down–

He sent bolts at them from the rooftop and two of them dropped to their knees, a shaft sticking from their necks; he didn’t let himself feel any satisfaction as he sent out another round. But this time the soldiers were prepared; they managed to avoid his bolts and they bounced off their black armour harmlessly. Bilbo could hardly see them: their armour was more the absence of any other light or colour than anything else.

He sent a poisoned bolt into their flame, hoping they’d be as susceptible to it as the last lot had been; he silently dropped to the ground, landing light as a cat. His robes seemed to glow in the darkness compared to the dark of their armour.

They saw him, those of them that were left; Bilbo sent more darts towards their visors and the two at the front screamed as the darts embedded themselves into their eyes. They flailed around helplessly and one fell into the water of the river, his heavy armour making him sink like a stone.

The others deemed to regard him warily and before they could say anything Bilbo sent out another round of bolts and they turned and ran, though half of them only made it a little ways before succumbing to the fumes of the poison and turning on each other.

He couldn’t stop them completely though, and he could only watch as those that remained set fire to a couple of  houses nearer Dale; that was all they did though, and the inhabitants escaped unharmed. They were still left homeless though, and Bilbo’s heart burned with rage.

He hadn’t given himself only for someone worse than Smaug to come in and take over. He’d find out who these soldiers were and who was sending them, and he’d stop them.

He made his way to the site of the fire the next day, staring at the smoking building in despair from the rooftop opposite. At least it wasn’t as bad as the wreckage the soldiers normally caused – these houses could be fixed. He knew carpenters, builders, people he could pay to rebuild them.

He wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings and for a few moments he was lost in thought; suddenly he felt his neck prickle and his stomach dropped out from his body. He looked around and saw two familiar dark blue cloaks making their way towards the burnt houses.

His lungs seemed to stop working; he couldn’t breathe as the two figures made their way closer. He shrank back against the roof, pressing himself flat to it and praying to Yavanna that they wouldn’t look up. He knew that head of dark hair; the tattoos on that bald head.

Thorin was only a few feet away from him.

Bilbo could drop down from his perch on the roof and reveal himself right now, see Thorin’s face again – those blue eyes that seemed to haunt him, the strong noble jaw. It was all Bilbo wanted; for a moment he had to close his eyes against the wave of longing that crashed over him, making his breath come short and fast.

“Thorin, look,” Bilbo heard Dwalin say and he felt his insides quiver a little. He missed the Sons. They’d become friends – even Dwalin, who’d been so mistrustful of him at first. He hadn’t realised how much he simply missed them until now.

“Gandalf is righ’,” he was saying and Bilbo forced himself to listen. Gandalf? Oh, _no,_ he’d think Bilbo was dead too–

“I’d so hoped he was wrong,” and oh _Yavanna_ that was Thorin’s voice and Bilbo’s heart gave a funny little flutter in his chest; he wanted nothing more than to see his face again, hear that voice say his name just one more time – “...Sauron is coming.”

Bilbo’s body went cold.

_Sauron?_

No. Surely not. But… He tried to see what Thorin and Dwalin had noticed, craning his neck, but had to duck back down again as the two were leaving, turning to go. He watched them go, his heart feeling as if it was breaking in his chest, and he could stop the miserable whisper that escaped his mouth. “Thorin,” he said simply, before hardening his heart; but the next thing he knew Thorin was looking around, eyes wide, and Bilbo’s heart was breaking all over again.

Thorin’s face was gaunter than before, his cheekbones more prominent and shadows beneath his eyes. He had a haunted look in his eyes and Bilbo couldn’t bear the sight of it, couldn’t stand seeing him like that and not be able to give him an encouraging smile or rest a hand on his arm like they’d done before.

When he looked up again, they were gone and his heart began to settle again, though it felt raw and tender. He forced himself to ignore it; his heart was foolish. He knew it would be a bad idea to go back to the Sons.

He scrambled down from the rooftop and hurried to the house, trying to find what Thorin and Dwalin had seen; it didn’t take much looking.

An eye branded onto the wood; Sauron’s mark.

If this was true, and the soldiers were Sauron’s men... the Sons were in danger. Oh, Yavanna, they would be hunted again – Sauron was the most powerful Templar of them all. The thought of him bringing his forces to Arda, all his cruelty and greed – it scared Bilbo more than he would admit.

And he wasn’t going to be happy that Smaug was dead, costing him influence and power here. Everyone thought the Sons had killed Smaug – Sauron would know this and would hunt them.

He was in turmoil as he made his way back to Bard’s house. They needed to be told, they needed to know that it was _them_ who were in danger if Sauron came back; but, Bilbo reasoned with himself, Gandalf would know. Gandalf would realise and would keep them safe. Bilbo could still go home to the Shire without ever revealing himself to the Sons.

He knew that part of him was scared. Scared that if he was to see Thorin again the Son would spurn him, send him away. Want nothing more to do with him.

Because Bilbo _had_ betrayed him, even if he’d been trying to save him. He hadn’t had a chance to explain before Smaug had – had tried to kill him; for all Thorin knew, Bilbo had been telling him everything about them.

The thought of Thorin turning away from him with disgust in his eyes scared him more than he could say.

He spent his thirtieth birthday with Bard and the children, though it wasn’t so different from any other day. He didn’t even tell them it was his birthday; he thought of Frodo though, and wondered how the lad was faring. Would he be celebrating today? It was his birthday too, but would it be too painful? He hoped not. He hoped Frodo could have some normality.

Bard noticed his preoccupation, and as night fell he joined Bilbo outside, their feet hanging over the edge of the wooden pathway towards the river.

“You seem worried,” he said.

Bilbo looked up at the sky, mapping out the stars. He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

“Sauron’s coming here,” he said eventually.

“Oh,” Bard said. “That’s...not good. Is there anything we can do?”

Bilbo screwed his eyes shut, his hands unconsciously fiddling with the wooden acorn Bofur had given him. “There is something,” he said. “It would mean me going back to the Sons. Coming back from the dead, as it were.” He let out a little huff. “But I’m afraid. I don’t know if I can do it.”

“But...that would be good, wouldn’t it?” Bard asked. “They were your friends.”

Bilbo didn’t look at Bard. “What if I told you that I’d done something? Something terrible?”

“What?”

“Would you be able to forgive me? Even if it had hurt you?”

“I think…” Bard paused, considering his words carefully. “I think that whatever you’ve done, it’s not as bad as you believe it is. Not if you did it for the right reasons.”

Bilbo gave a small smile, ignoring the way his chest seemed to constrict and his heart beat unevenly.

“I don’t know that Thorin Oakenshield would feel the same,” he whispered, closing his palm around the acorn so tightly it started to leave dents in his skin.

“You’ll never know unless you try,” Bard said quietly. He stood then, offering Bilbo a hand. “Come back inside. Tilda wants you to tell her another story, and she won’t go to sleep until you do!”

Bilbo laughed and accepted Bard’s hand, letting him pull him up and following the man back inside the house.

 

*

 

His mind was made up for him not two days later when they woke to the sight of a black flag flying from the top of the Lonely Tower, an orange eye watching over the city.

Sauron had come.


	13. Flesh and Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *internal screeching*
> 
> it's the part you've been waiting for since the end of chapter 10!!!! and also i apologise profusely for the extremely bad sex scene later hahahahahaha there's a reason i stick to fluff...
> 
> but anyway.
> 
> as usual, thank you to you all for sticking with this story - you don't know how much it means to me :')

“It would have been his birthday yesterday.”

The days were growing shorter as autumn set in; the sun was beginning to set over the Shire and the sky outside was a fiery orange. Thorin was sat at the table in Bag End’s kitchen, a cup of delicate china clasped between his hands; Lobelia was opposite him, staring unseeing out of the window over Thorin’s shoulder.

He noticed he’d frozen and forced himself to relax, though he set the cup down a little more sharply than he’d meant to. He hoped Lobelia didn’t notice.

“His birthday?” he asked, ignoring the prickling in his throat and the sudden squeezing of his lungs.

Lobelia looked down at her cup of tea, the steam rising gently around her face.

“It’s the same day as Frodo’s,” she said quietly. “We tried to celebrate it as normal but how could it have been normal, when his parents and his uncle were missing?” she asked, her voice hard and face contorted. She looked up at Thorin then and he could see tears glittering unshed in her eyes. “How is it ever supposed to be normal again?”

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

“You’re doing your best,” he said thickly. “That’s all anyone can do.”

She gave a twist of her mouth and let out a harsh breath. “My _best_ ,” she said hollowly. “I’m the reason he’s dead and now I’m the one responsible for his nephew.”

“You didn’t kill him,” Thorin said, something inside him telling him to reach out and lay a comforting hand on her arm, but he was too afraid to do so. “It wasn’t your fault, Lobelia.”

“But it _was,”_ she protested, turning away. “I was there. Bilbo and I, we had a plan, but I – I failed. I failed _him._ I was supposed to kill Smaug when they came out into the open, but then he said all that – all those things–” Thorin felt his stomach churn at those _things_ Smaug had said – “and the next thing I knew he had Bilbo and I couldn’t risk it, I _couldn’t_ risk killing Bilbo – but then he–” Her shoulders were shaking with muffled sobs and for a long while the kitchen was silent. After a while she straightened and wiped her eyes, turning back to face Thorin.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said again, willing her to believe him. A tiny part of him raged, wanted to blame her for taking Bilbo away from him, but the rest of him was tired and beyond laying blame. He was as much at fault as her, and he just wanted it all to _stop._

Lobelia smiled at that, though there was no humour in it. “Well,” she said brusquely, all traces of weakness disappearing from her face. “It is what it is. Do you have more news from the city?”

“Yes,” he said. “Lobelia, it’s Sauron. When Dwalin and I checked out where the soldiers had been, we found an eye carved into the wood.”

“Sauron? But… But he can’t come here! If you’re right, Thorin…”

“He’s not here yet,” Thorin pointed out. “He may not come at all.”

“I don’t think Sauron is the sort to make idle threats,” Lobelia said, biting her lip. “He’ll be hunting you, Thorin. You and the Sons. For killing Smaug – no one knows it was Bilbo, they all think it was you.”

Thorin felt himself go cold at her words but he didn’t let himself show it.

“You focus on Frodo and keeping the Children safe. Let me worry about the Sons.”

“We’re still allies, Thorin. I’m allowed to worry about your safety. You were important to Bilbo, and that means you’re important to us.” Her voice was soft and Thorin turned his head, not wanting her to see the torment on his face.

He’d been to see Lobelia a few times since their initial meeting, and while they were not close they had become friends of a sort. Perhaps it was only because they’d been thrown together – two survivors just clinging on to something in the wake of the storm caused by Bilbo’s absence – or maybe it was that Lobelia had the same sort of energy and life that Bilbo had had and Thorin couldn’t help but be drawn to it; whatever it was, Thorin found it comforting to have someone to talk to outside of the Sons.

And he still hoped that maybe, just maybe, Lobelia shared his secret hope that Bilbo was still alive somewhere.

His little candle of hope was growing ever weaker, the flame starting to gutter and flicker out. The rest of the Sons had moved on, their faces almost pitying if ever Thorin mentioned Bilbo; Lobelia never let on that she agreed with him, always stating that she had to move on for Frodo – where in fact, it was only Frodo’s stubborn certainty that kept his little candle from fluttering out altogether.

Frodo came clattering into the kitchen then, breaking Thorin from his reverie and he saw Lobelia’s face transformed as she smiled at the lad.

“Hello Thorin,” the boy said, not even looking surprised at Thorin’s presence. Thorin made a noise of greeting, his heart still constricting painfully when he looked at Frodo.

“Hey there,” Lobelia said, her gaze softening as he clambered up into a chair. He had mud on the knees of his breeches and his cheeks were pink. She plucked out a leaf which had got caught in his dark curls. “Look at you, young man! You’ll have to have a bath later.”

Frodo pouted but cheered up considerably when Lobelia placed a plate of cake in front of him. In between enthusiastic mouthfuls he told them what he’d been up to – Otho had taken him to the forest and they’d gone bird watching, creeping quietly through the undergrowth while Otho pointed them out.

Once he’d finished eating Lobelia chivvied him out of the kitchen to get him in the bath and Thorin found himself walking out in the garden while he waited for her to come back, breathing in the cold air and enjoying the feel of it as it hit his lungs. He didn’t realise he was headed towards Bilbo’s oak tree until he was in front of it, the ground littered with orange leaves that crunched under his boots.

As always, he felt his throat constrict a little and he felt a little twinge in his chest, but it was nothing compared to the agony that had ripped through him before.

“Happy birthday,” he said softly, his hand reaching up to trace the bark as he remembered Lobelia’s words from earlier. He rested his palm against the tree, simply feeling the roughness of it on his skin. “Wherever you are.”

He wondered if Bilbo would hear him; whether he really was dead and his words would reach him in whichever paradise he now rested, or if he was yet living. He still wished with every fibre of his being that was the case, but it grew harder with every day to keep that hope alive. All he wanted was to run his hands through Bilbo’s curls one more time, trace the scars that told of his bravery and strength. He wanted more than anything to apologise for letting him down. For failing him.

He drew his hand away from the tree as he took a deep breath, his heart twisting painfully. The guilt was still strong; he could still remember the paralysis that had taken him, turning him to stone, first at Smaug’s words and then as Bilbo – his Bilbo – had toppled, falling–

“Why?” he choked out, tears burning his eyes and the back of his throat. “Why did you do it, Bilbo?” Why had he gone to see Smaug anyway? What had he hoped to achieve? And still he wondered why Bilbo had betrayed them to Smaug; what had made him do it? “Why did you have to go? I – I loved you.” He screwed his eyes shut, clenching his jaw against the tears that threatened to spill. Maker, he’d loved Bilbo. Loved him still.

Shaking his head he turned from the tree and headed back inside, forcing the tears to retreat. He would not cry. He’d cried enough.

Lobelia was in the kitchen preparing food. She looked at him as he came in; she said nothing but she must have seen his distress on his face as her face softened.

“Are you staying for dinner?” she asked. “Frodo would like it if you did.”

Thorin gave a short nod. “I’d like that.” Meals with the Sons were painful; he simply couldn’t bring himself to join in with their banter and cheerfulness any more, not when it was expected that he’d moved on. But here in the Shire, he felt lighter – less troubled – as if Bilbo’s presence still lingered here.

He did feel a moment of guilt about Fíli and Kíli – he didn’t spend as much time with them as he should, and he needed to rectify that. But tonight, he’d have dinner with Lobelia and Frodo and worry when he returned to Rohan.

Lobelia had the same ability of carrying a conversation nearly all by herself that Bilbo had had, chattering about this and that with a cheerful voice and seemingly untroubled. She wasn’t, of course – there was a brittle edge to her voice and when she stopped she worried the edge of her apron nervously – but it made her feel better to not think about things, whereas Thorin couldn’t help but brood. Perhaps he and Bilbo would never have worked together anyway: his dark moods, his desire for solitude – they’d never really have been compatible with Bilbo’s sunny disposition.

Whatever Lobelia was cooking smelt delicious as she sliced a loaf of bread and set it on the table, drawing Frodo from his room with his curls still damp from his bath. He joined Thorin at the table, shooting him a bright smile and Thorin quirked his own lips up in return.

They settled down to eat then, roasted meat; soft baby potatoes boiled in mint and covered in melted butter; vegetables from the garden. It was simple fare but seasoned so that every bite was delicious.

“Uncle would like this,” Frodo said after a while, looking at Thorin happily as she chewed his food. “When he’s back, you have to come for dinner again, Mister Thorin.”

Lobelia set her cutlery down sharply. Thorin glanced at her, taking in the set of her jaw.

“Frodo,” she said, and there was a note to her voice that held a warning, even if her voice was still soft. “We’ve talked about this, love. Uncle Bilbo isn’t coming back.”

Frodo stuck out his chin, a determined expression on his face.

“He is,” he said, his little voice wavering just a bit. “Just you wait and see.”

“Frodo,” Lobelia said again and this time her voice was shrill, almost angry. Thorin could see her picking at the fabric of her apron and twisting it in her hands tightly, leaving creases. “Stop this right now.”

“He’s coming back!” Frodo said again staunchly, crossing his arms. “He is! Thorin believes me!”

Lobelia’s gaze whipped to him and he shrank back from the force of it, suddenly uncomfortable. She looked at him, accusing; on his other side Frodo was looking at him too, blue eyes wide and beseeching, pleading.

“Frodo,” he said roughly, trying to find the words he wanted to say. (But how could he explain that wishing and actually hoping were two very different things?)

But at that Frodo’s face crumpled and Thorin could see his eyes glittering with tears as he scrambled down from his chair and ran out of the room, ignoring Lobelia calling him back. Thorin felt sick. He stood, chair scraping on the floor of the kitchen, and ignored Lobelia’s eyes on him as he followed Frodo out of the kitchen.

He was in his room, face down on the bed and shoulders heaving as he cried into his pillow. Thorin approached gently, reaching out a soothing hand and rubbing it on the boy’s back as he crouched down; but Frodo moved away from his touch and Thorin withdrew his hand quickly. Frodo didn’t look at him, keeping his face buried in his pillow as sobs forced their way out of him.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin whispered softly, settling for simply resting his hands on the bed. “I’m sorry, Frodo.”

“You said you believed me,” came Frodo’s voice, muffled by the pillow. The hiccups had started and Thorin wanted to pat his back, stroke his hair, anything to offer comfort, but he dared not. “You said you thought he’d come back too,” he gave a little hiccup around another sob, “but you lied. Just like everyone else.”

“No,” Thorin said then, desperately, and this time he tucked one of Frodo’s curls behind his ear but the boy turned his head so he was facing away from Thorin. “I didn’t lie, Frodo, I promise I didn’t.”

Frodo lifted his head then, his blue eyes red with tears and bottom lip trembling. “So you think my uncle will come back?” Thorin hesitated a moment and it was a moment too long; Frodo had turned his head away. “It’s alright,” he said, his voice heavy with resignation and despair. “No one else believes me either. They all lied as well.”

“No, Frodo,” Thorin said thickly. “They didn’t mean to lie. But it’s _hard_ –”

“It’s okay,” Frodo interrupted, his voice tired. “Please go away now.”

“I loved him too, you know,” Thorin said quietly before getting to his feet. “Mahal, I loved him.”

Frodo’s shoulders were trembling again and Thorin placed a gentle hand on that small quivering back and this time Frodo didn’t shy away; Thorin knelt back down and Frodo turned and wrapped his arms around Thorin’s neck, his tears soaking Thorin’s shirt.

“I miss him, Thorin,” he got out, stuttering around the sobs. Thorin tightened his grip around Frodo’s little body and held him, rocking him back and forth just like he had Bilbo that time on the temple’s roof.

“I know, Frodo,” he said softly, his own voice threatening to break. “I know. I miss him too.” Maker’s hammer, how he missed him. He didn’t think it would ever truly go away, the longing and the ache that Bilbo had left in his heart. He’d just learnt to ignore it better in the last month – it was easier than waking up unable to breathe, feeling sick and limbs too heavy to move. It was easier than feeling like his heart was breaking into pieces every moment his mind wasn’t occupied.

He stroked Frodo’s curls and let him cry until he’d worn himself out, falling asleep with a small frown still on his face. Carefully Thorin tucked him under the covers and left the room quietly, going back to the kitchen to console a worried and scared Lobelia.

He checked in on Fíli and Kíli when he got home, hugging them tightly despite their laughing protests. And as he lay in his own bed he did his best to stop his own tears from tearing out of him into the silence of his chamber.

Not two days later, he ventured out into the city with Dwalin and saw the flag now flying from the top of the Lonely Tower.

A flag of black with a fiery eye, rippling in the wind dangerously.

“That’s it then,” Dwalin said, his voice hollow. “He’s back.”

Thorin hadn’t told the others what Lobelia had said about how Sauron would be hunting them, believing them responsible for Smaug’s death. He hadn’t wanted to worry them, if it turned out Gandalf had been wrong; but he was right. And now they had to prepare themselves, hide; with this latest blow his tiny flame of hope guttered and died.

If there’d ever been a time for Bilbo to come back, it would be now.

“We should head back,” Thorin said roughly, ignoring the despair sitting heavy in his stomach. “There’s something you all need to know.”

They were scared when he told them, their faces turning white. They’d all heard what Sauron had done in Angmar when he’d risen to power there twenty years before: he’d wiped out half the population, burning and torturing and killing whenever the inclination took him. It didn’t take much to imagine what he’d do to them for defeating Smaug and losing Sauron a Templar stronghold.   

He made his way to the Pink Sapphire afterwards; Dís would need to know too. She greeted him happily, seemingly unconcerned – he regretted that he was only bringing bad news. Business had been going well since Smaug’s demise and the Sapphire was doing better than ever before – perhaps the extra revenue would be enough to make sure it weathered the coming storm.

As soon as the door of Dís’ study was shut, she looked at him sharply, sensing his discomfort. “What’s happening, Thorin? They’re saying Sauron has come, but he can’t. Can he?”

Thorin nodded. “They’re right, Dís. He’s back. His flag was flying from the Lonely Tower this morning – I saw it myself.”

“Oh, Mahal,” Dís whispered, reaching a hand out for the desk and leaning on it. “He’ll destroy everything good in this city.”

“It’s worse than that, Dís,” he said and she whirled back around to face him.

“What do you mean?”

He explained what it meant: that once again the Sons of Durin were to be hunted. And this time by a man who was known to have wiped out entire towns and cities for fun. Smaug looked like a beetle compared to the danger Sauron presented.

“I want to see my children,” she said after a moment of silence, her jaw set but Thorin could see the worry in her eyes. They hurried back to Rohan, Dís impatient to see Fíli and Kíli again after so long separated. But she’d been right to leave them together, with Thorin – they’d been a comfort to each other in the days after Bilbo’s death. It would have been harder if they’d been apart.

When they got back Thorin was surprised to find Gandalf sitting with the Sons in the living room, a cup of tea clasped in his hands and a surprisingly grim look on his face.

While Dís went to find the children Thorin led Gandalf to his study.

“You were right,” he said as Gandalf settled himself down. Thorin couldn’t sit, couldn’t stop pacing. Seeing his sister had helped but he could feel fear pooling in his extremities, weighing him down. His chest felt like lead; he’d felt cold ever since his flame of hope had been snuffed out that morning. “Sauron is come.”

“As I feared,” Gandalf said heavily. “I’d hoped that for once my intelligence was mistaken, but alas. And I’m afraid it gets worse.”

Thorin curled his hands into fists. “What?”

“Sauron is not his true name. He once went by another name, one perhaps known to you.” Gandalf paused for a moment. “He was once Annatar.”

_Annatar._

“No,” Thorin choked out, shaking his head. He felt his body go cold, despair weighing him down even more heavily. “No, it can’t be. Annatar died.”

“I’m afraid it is. They never found the bodies, Thorin, and it’s not so hard to create a new identity when everyone assumes you’re dead.”

“No,” Thorin said again. “This can’t be happening, it can’t. Gandalf–”

If Gandalf was right and Sauron truly _was_ Annatar, the Sons were as good as dead. He would not rest until every last one of them, every member of family, every ally or anyone who’d helped them in even the smallest way, was dead.

Just over twenty years ago Thorin’s grandfather had unmasked a plot from within the Grand Council – the power directly under the White Council and of which his grandfather had been a member, one of Justices – and  ordered the deaths of the ringleaders. The one in charge of it all had been a man named Melkor; his wife and son had been stripped of their wealth, put on a ship headed east and given enough to make a new life far away from Arda. But they’d never made it, and the ship had sunk not too far from the harbour in Angmar. Melkor’s son had been called Annatar.

He had finally returned to Arda to mete out revenge to those who’d been responsible for his father’s death. Dread was settling over Thorin like a pall; he could feel his heartbeat thudding loudly in his ears, his blood turning sluggish as fear made his skin prickle.

“What do we _do,_ Gandalf? You know he’ll be hunting us. He’s not Smaug, he’s so much worse. I don’t know what to do. I’m – I’m scared of failing, that we’ll all be killed and – I feel _useless_.” he screwed his eyes up and let his head tip backwards, his closed eyes turned to the ceiling. “If Bilbo were here, he’d know what to do,” he said thickly. “He’d have a plan. But he’s not here and he’s not ever going to be here again, and I don’t know how we’re going to do this without him.” His chest constricted and something squeezed his lungs as he spoke, but he forced the words out anyway.

“Thorin,” Gandalf said his name sharply and Thorin looked at him, his eyes flying open in anger and embarrassment at being spoken to like that after he’d just spoken his heart. Gandalf knew what it cost him to be open like that, to be _honest_.

Gandalf’s expression was soft as he regarded him, his eyes full of his own sadness.

“I miss Bilbo too,” he said quietly. “Eru knows that lad was as close to my own son as he could be. But we can’t let our despair hold us down.”

“I’m not–” Thorin’s throat had closed up, his voice thick.

“Yes, things look dire right now. Bilbo’s gone and we have someone entirely cruel and evil coming after us. Is all evil wiped out with the defeat of one Templar?” Gandalf asked, his old voice comforting. Thorin shook his head. “No indeed. And nor is all good gone from the world with Bilbo’s death, even if it feels like it. There is no light without darkness, Thorin, but darkness will never extinguish light completely so long as there is even the smallest, loneliest candle burning brightly.”

Thorin said nothing to that, only hung his head in shame. But he could feel something in his cold dead chest – there was a little flicker of something, something hopeful. It wasn’t a fully grown hope, not yet, but the seeds of it.

“And nor can evil truly defeat all good,” Gandalf continued. “So long as there are some of us who still fight for it.”

 

***

 

Every step seemed to weigh a tonne, his feet dragging reluctantly as he made his way to Bombur’s inn. Bilbo hadn’t realised quite how much the thought of seeing the Sons again terrified him.

Though he was only going to see Nori this time – the man would probably be the least fazed by Bilbo’s reappearance of all the Sons, and Bilbo needed his help in revealing his presence. He didn’t even know where the Sons _were_ – were they still in Rohan? Or had they packed up and left? He hadn’t seen them again during his wanderings of the city, and tried to ignore the twinge of disappointment in his chest in favour of reminding himself how unwise it would be to cross paths with an unwitting Son in the middle of the street.

Bombur’s inn looked just the same as it ever had to Bilbo’s relief, and when he slipped inside behind a crowd of men laughing loudly he saw Bombur’s generous profile behind the bar, laughing with a client. He didn’t notice Bilbo cross the tavern, blending in with the other patrons of the pub as he made his way to the Thieves’ den. He paused for just a moment in the doorway – long enough to spot Nori’s elaborate hairstyle and note that he was alone at his table, but not so long anyone noticed him – and he hurried over to Nori’s table, slipping into the booth before him. He held a knife ready in his hand just in case.

Nori looked up as Bilbo settled across from him; it took a moment before his eyes widened in shock and his face turned pale as Bilbo’s robes. He made to reach for a knife but Bilbo beat him to it, his knife cold against Nori’s side and the Thief froze, not taking his eyes off Bilbo’s. Bilbo could see his breath coming quickly.

“It’s me, Nori,” he said gently and slowly he removed the blade, bringing it away and placing it on the table before them. “It’s me.”

Nori was looking at him in a mixture of suspicion and fear and Bilbo forced himself not to let the despair show on his face. How could he get Nori to trust him, believe him?

“Bilbo?” Nori whispered and Bilbo nodded, swallowing thickly. “How can it be you? You fell – we all saw it – how are you alive?”

“I’ll explain everything, Nori, I promise, but I need your help first.”

Nori shook his head. “Tell me I’m dreaming. You can’t be ‘ere. I saw ya _fall_.”

“Nori,” Bilbo said sharply and Nori looked back up at him. “It’s me and I’m really here, I promise. Trust me.” Nori swallowed as he looked at Bilbo and eventually nodded, though his eyes were still wary.

“Aye, you are,” he said. “Maker knows it’s good to see ya again, Bilbo.” he reached forward and gripped Bilbo’s arms, leaning his head forwards to touch foreheads. Bilbo felt his throat close up at the gesture of affection.

“You too, Nori,” he said thickly.

“Now,” Nori said, almost back to his usual self as he leant back in his seat and regarded Bilbo, his earlier fear transformed into almost wonder, though Bilbo could see there was still a little suspicion in his eyes too. “What do you need me to do?”

Bilbo hesitated; if he went through with this, there’d be no going back. He wouldn’t be able to change his mind. He took a deep breath.

“I need to see the Sons. I need to come back, to all of them. Things are happening in this city and I need to warn them.”

Nori nodded. “That’s not so hard. Losing you was like losing a brother, Bilbo. They’ll be glad to see you alive.”

“Even… Even after what I did?” he asked, biting his lip. “I’ve been so scared, Nori, so ashamed; the thought of seeing you and being turned away – I couldn’t bear it.”

Nori’s gaze sharpened and he gave a small shrug. “You did what you ‘ad to do,” he said. “You ‘ad yer reasons. We all ‘ave secrets, Bilbo, and after all of it you gave us what we’d been fighting for. Whatever you did, it don’t change the fact you...died for us.”

Bilbo looked at the table, clasping his hands under the old wood.

“You mean that?” he asked, uncertain.

Nori gave another shrug. “We spoke about ya a lot, Bilbo, in the days after you were gone. There weren’t no anger in us except at Smaug for taking you from us.”

Bilbo’s chest was constricting and then relaxing with relief and he concentrated on his breathing so he didn’t make a fool of himself. The Sons didn’t hate him – didn’t blame him – and that lifted a weight from his shoulders that had been pressing down on him. Suddenly the thought of seeing them again - seeing his _friends_ – made him feel excited. He ignored the little part of him that still quailed to think about Thorin, and he was too much of a coward still to ask Nori about him directly.

He and Nori gradually figured out a way to get all the Sons together – and Nori was impressed Bilbo had managed to get past Bombur without the other man noticing – and as Bilbo left, slipping out in the wake of another crowd of customers leaving the now busy pub, he felt lighter and more hopeful.

Perhaps they really had forgiven him. He hoped his coming back wouldn’t reignite the old resentments – much could be forgotten when someone was gone, and it never did well to think ill of the dead, but it he was to come back and remind them all of what he’d done… well. He’d have to trust that Nori was right, and they’d be glad to find him alive. Nori had taken it well, but he’d have a lot of explaining to do soon – it wasn’t every day people came back from the dead.

Though if Bilbo was right about Sauron, then perhaps it was more common than one thought.

 

***

 

“Where’s Fíli?” Thorin asked when Fíli didn’t turn up to dinner that evening. Gandalf had just left, going to check in on Lobelia, and Fíli’s place at the table was suspiciously empty.

“She said she was having dinner with Éowyn this evening,” Balin said.

“Oh,” Thorin said, feeling slightly put out his own niece hadn’t told him her plans. He was grateful she had made such a good friend in Éowyn – Maker knew, she needed a chance to be young and untroubled for once. She didn’t come back ‘til late, and she jumped when he said her name – almost guiltily, he thought, and she looked at him almost warily for a moment. A moment later she was her normal self again and gave him a quick hug before hurrying off to bed.

Thorin hated feeling so uncertain about the future and as he lay in bed he couldn’t stop the sick feeling in his gut. Smaug had been a threat to them, yes, but the thought of what Annatar – Sauron – would do to them if he found them… it made him feel cold all over. Were they being foolish by staying? Should they flee and start a new life somewhere else? Yes, they’d weathered Smaug but Smaug had grown lazy, hunting them only when he remembered or grew bored, like a cat torments an unfortunate mouse before killing it. But Annatar would not hold back.

It scared him to think of leaving Arda. It was all he’d ever known, from the Durin mansion by the mines in Erebor to the underground tunnels, his life had always been in Arda, rarely straying too far from it. Part of him railed at the thought of giving up and letting Annatar scare them away, but the rest of him was rightfully scared of him. He’d broach the subject with his sister, with the others. He would go where Dís went; if anyone else wanted to leave they could. These Sons had all proved themselves a hundred times over; he’d not ask a single one of them to die on his behalf. No; someone else had made that sacrifice and he would regret it ‘til the end of his days.

He dreamt of Bilbo that night. Perhaps it was his conversation with Gandalf; perhaps it was simply that he was weak and still in love with him. Whatever it was, he dreamt of Bilbo at home in the Shire, basking in the sun as he leant back against the oak tree; he dreamt of him sitting in one of the chairs in the living room in Erebor with a smile on his face. He dreamt of Bilbo, his back turned to him; he called out to him and Bilbo turned, his face soft as he regarded Thorin, a smile on his face and eyes warm – and cupped in his hands, the Arkenstone.

He woke with cold sweat beading his forehead.

Where had that come from? He didn’t want to dream about the Arkenstone. He didn’t want to think about it ever again. Smaug had tried to trick him, tried to manipulate him that day – but then Bilbo had died and the Arkenstone remained nothing more than a name, something ethereal. He hoped it had been destroyed during the unrest – or if some Templar had thought to take it for their own, he hoped it was ruining their life as much as they’d helped ruin his own.

“Help me, Bilbo,” he whispered miserably to the empty darkness of his room. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do.” But of course no one replied, no matter how much he wished otherwise. He could still hear Bilbo’s voice clear as day in his head; it scared him to think that one day it’d be gone, nothing more than a ghostly whisper, a sense rather than a voice, just like his brother’s.

He hated missing Bilbo, hated still loving him. There was a reason he’d built walls around his heart, walls that had lasted years and years before Bilbo knocked then down, stone by stone. He hated feeling so weak.

It was still early but he couldn’t get back to sleep, so he crossed the city to visit Dís in the grey light of the pre-dawn. Now autumn had truly arrived the days were growing shorter, the sun rising later every day. He enjoyed the feeling of being awake before the sun – always had, even as a child. It had always given him a strange sense of satisfaction, seeing the world come to life around him.

Dís was surprised to see him so early and ushered him in. It was busy despite the early hours, maids bustling around with bundles of fresh linens and various buckets and mops. She signalled to her doorman (Thorin thought it was Bert, but it could equally have been Tom or Bill – he never could remember how to tell the brothers apart) to bring breakfast and soon he was seated on Dís’ dark pink sofa with a cup of hot, strong coffee and a plate of warm bread and butter.

“You’ve been thinking, haven’t you, Thorin,” his sister said accusingly, though her eyes were amused. “I can see it in your face.”

“Yes,” he admitted, spreading butter on the bread. “I have been thinking. And I wanted to talk to you before the others.”

“It’s important then,” she said, eyes sharpening. “I thought so, given the hour.”

He nodded. “I’ve been thinking about leaving Arda.”

“Leaving?” Dís’ voice was sharp as a knife and Thorin just managed not to flinch. “Why would we leave?”

“Because Sauron is more than just an evil Templar,” he said. He looked up at Dís, standing by her desk. “Dís, you remember twenty or so years ago, when there was a plot against the White Council?”

Dís nodded shortly.

“You remember Grandfather ordered the deaths of the ringleaders? There was one, Melkor. He had a son and a wife who died on the voyage away from Arda.”

“I remember. Annatar.”

“Yes. Dís… he didn’t die. Sauron is Annatar. He’s come back to kill us for what our grandfather did.”

Dís looked shocked but schooled her features back into a more neutral expression. “How can you know this?”

“Gandalf.”

“Then it must be true… by the Stone…” she sat heavily down in the chair opposite Thorin, looking at him with wide eyes and Thorin felt a fierce wave of protectiveness well up. She was still his little sister. “I don’t want to leave, Thorin.” She sounded scared. “But Fíli, Kíli – he can kill me but he will not hurt my children.”

“I don’t want to leave either,” he said quietly. “But it may be our wisest course of action.” He ran his hands over his face, feeling strained and weary. “I’ll speak to Balin and the others about it this afternoon.”

He heard Dís approach and felt her warmth as she sat beside him and her arms wrap around him, seeking comfort from him as they’d done since they were children. What lives they’d led – he yearned then for his childhood, back when things were easy and his father and grandfather were strong and noble, still sound of mind. It was only later it had started to go downhill and they’d been paying the price for their grandfather’s and father’s mistakes ever since.

For a moment he was tempted to tell her about his dream – Bilbo and the Arkenstone – but he didn’t. She’d only worry and he didn’t want that; it didn’t mean anything. Dreams were just that: dreams.

When he left the sun was up properly and normal life had resumed, the streets busy and the Sapphire already doing business.

He went to find Fíli and Kíli and pass on their mother’s messages, wanting to reassure himself that they were whole and well. He knew they were but he still would feel better after holding them close, just for a moment.

Kíli was sitting with Bofur and he smiled brightly at Thorin as he entered.

“Uncle!” he greeted, holding out his small block of wood. “Bofur’s teaching me to carve!”

“So I can see,” he smiled, ruffling the lad’s curls. “Where’s your sister?” he asked. “Still asleep?”

“No, she went to see Éowyn,” Kíli said, his expression suddenly glum. “She said I couldn’t come because Éowyn thinks I’m boring, but I know Éowyn doesn’t mind it when I’m there. I taught her to use a bow,” he said proudly and Thorin smiled.

“You’re a good lad,” he said. “Don’t you listen to Fíli, she’s just being an older sister. I’ll go speak to her.”

He headed out of the tunnel and climbed the ladder up to the inn’s warehouse. Fíli seemed to be spending a lot of time with Éowyn – but he supposed it was normal for teenage girls. He remembered how Dís used to cry every time she said goodbye to her friends, despite seeing them nearly every day. He smiled at the memory.

He found Éowyn in the inn, helping Théoden out front, but no Fíli. He frowned.

“Is Fíli not with you?” he asked.

“Not seen her since dinner yesterday evening,” Théoden said, his expression concerned.

“She said she was with Éowyn,” Thorin said and he and Théoden looked at the girl, who’d been suspiciously silent. She seemed nervous under their gazes.

“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug.

“Éowyn,” Théoden said sharply and Éowyn turned pink but shook her head.

“I don’t know, uncle. I’m not lying. I don’t know where she is.”

Thorin felt the beginnings of fear clutching with cold hands at his heart. Where was she?

“We have to find her,” he said.

“Of course,” Théoden said. He untied his apron and folded it, setting it on the counter. “Let’s find Éomer, he can help us look.”

Éowyn seemed to make a sort of squeaking noise and Thorin looked at her, but she was intently polishing the inside of the glass and didn’t look at him. She was hiding something, that was for sure, but he didn’t have time to be indulging in the whims of a tween. He had to find Fíli and make sure she was alright.

He followed Théoden out to the stable where Éomer was looking after the horses. They stepped inside, Thorin’s eyes taking a moment to adjust after the autumn sunshine; the sight that greeted him made him freeze.

At the end of the stable was Fíli, Éomer beside her. He was holding her hand, guiding it towards the nose of the chestnut-coloured horse in the stall before them.

“He won’t hurt you,” Éomer was saying. “Stand here.” He reached out and adjusted Fíli’s position, guiding her with a hand to her waist – and she looked up at him with a bright smile, her eyes full of _something_ – and his hand was still resting on her waist, their other hands still twined together as they moved closer. The hand that had guided hers moved to brush away a stray strand of hair from her face in a gesture that was soft, intimate–

Thorin saw red.

“Fíli,” he said sharply, his voice cold as ice. At the sound of her name Fíli jumped away from Éomer, snatching her hand back and looking towards the stable door in shock.

“Uncle,” she said and there was a slight tremor in her voice.

“Get here, now,” he said slowly and he saw her bite her lip.

“No,” she said, and stuck out her jaw determinedly. Thorin forced himself to stay calm.

“I will come and get you if you make me, Fíli,” he growled.

“I’m not a child any more, uncle,” she said. “You can’t treat me as if I’m five anymore.”

“You want to be treated like an adult?” Thorin said through gritted teeth. “Then you’ll come here and we’ll discuss this like adults.”

She seemed to waver then, unable to say anything to that.

“Go, Fíli,” Éomer said quietly and she turned to him, which made Thorin fume. He glared daggers at the man – how dare he think he could even _talk_ to his niece, let alone anything else? “Go, it’s alright.”

Thorin ignored the way Fíli clutched at his hands before straightening her back and walking the length of the stable towards Thorin, as if heading to her own execution. Her eyes were hard and glittering and for a moment she looked so much like Dís it was disconcerting. She stopped in front of him, resentment in her eyes, and he took her arm, holding tightly. He gave Théoden a look as he turned to the door – the other man seemed to have turned to stone, a disapproving look on his face as he regarded his nephew. He nodded at Thorin and he and Fíli left, Fíli struggling to keep up with Thorin’s longer strides.

He said nothing until they reached the warehouse.

“Get inside,” he said shortly, and Fíli did as she was told, clambering down the ladder. Thorin followed suit. “My study.” They headed to his study, Fíli silent beside him. Balin heard them approaching and looked out to see who it was; at the look on Thorin’s face he pressed his lips together and followed, shutting the door behind them.

“Sit,” Thorin said to Fíli, gesturing to his chair.

“I’d rather stand, thank you,” she said stiffly.

“As you wish,” Thorin said, his voice cold.

“What’s all this about?” Balin asked, his voice softer than Thorin’s as he regarded Fíli’s stony face, unshed tears in her eyes and body rigid. Thorin started pacing, his anger boiling hot in him.

“I found Fíli _consorting_ with Théoden’s boy,” Thorin spat. “That’s where she’s been going all this time, not to see Éowyn at all but to see _him_.”

“That’s not true!” Fíli protested. “I’ve not been lying to you. It’s only sometimes and I was not _consorting,_ Uncle, Éomer was showing me how to groom a horse–”

“Then why was his hand on your waist?” Thorin demanded. “And did I _imagine_ you holding hands?”

Colour crept into Fíli’s cheeks at his words but she said nothing.

“Fíli?” Balin said softly. “Is it true?”

Her gaze left Thorin to look at Balin and she gave a short nod.

“I love him.”

Thorin snorted. “You don’t know what love is, Fíli. You won’t see him again, not over my dead body. We’ll pretend this never happened.”

Her chin started to tremble. “This is why I didn’t tell you, Uncle, because I knew you’d react like this. You’re being stupid, and Bilbo knew you would be too–”

“Bilbo knew?” Thorin asked, stopping in his tracks. Fíli nodded.

“Oh, he knew, and he promised to keep it a secret from you,” Fíli said, her voice rising and a bitter, humourless note to it. “He knew you’d try and keep us apart, knew you’d not understand and that’s why he kept it from you. Because you don’t understand, Uncle–”

“You know _nothing_ , Fíli!” Thorin exploded. He could feel those familiar cold hands squeezing at his chest, making it hard to breathe. “I am trying to protect you. You don’t love him, my girl. Love is a _curse_ , it makes you weak and scared and by the Stone you will not see this boy again, do you understand me?”

“Love isn’t a _curse_ , Uncle!” Fíli retorted, her own fists clenched at her sides and the tears finally escaping and trailing down her cheeks. In her fury she looked like Dís. “You loved Bilbo, don’t deny it – just because you were too much of a _coward_ to ever do anything about it–”

Thorin stepped back as if winded and Fíli ran from the room, leaving Thorin standing still as a statue as he took in her words. He couldn’t breathe and he felt as if he’d been punched and the empty hole in his chest where his heart had been was aching.

_Too much of a coward_ – oh, she was right; he’d been too much a coward to do anything about the ache in his heart when Bilbo was alive and now the man was dead, leaving him with only memories and a heart that still beat but no longer worked.

He forced himself to ignore the ache in his chest. He had scars there from his injuries; it was simply those which were playing up. Bilbo Baggins had haunted him long enough now – he’d allowed himself to think softly of him, to let what was left of his heart rule his head, but enough was enough.

He wouldn’t think of Bilbo Baggins again. No more, not ever.

“Find Fíli,” he told Balin shortly and strode from the room, shutting himself in his chamber.

No more. _No more._

 

_*_

 

Dís wasn’t happy with Thorin at all. After Fíli had run out of Thorin’s study they’d found her up on the hill; that evening Bofur and Dori had taken her to the Sapphire to be with Dís. She didn’t want to see Thorin at all, and he couldn’t blame her.

When he looked in the mirror he didn’t see a hero or anyone noble at all; he saw someone stupid and cowardly.  He removed the braids from his ears and hid his father’s beads away safely; he didn’t merit them. Not when he estranged his own niece, couldn’t protect his family and allowed himself to pine for someone dead. Better wait and give them to Fíli, if she ever spoke to him again, or Kíli.

He apologised to Théoden for behaving as he did and the man was also apologetic – he hadn’t noticed it happening under his nose, after all. But Thorin was the one who’d not handled it very well and insulted Éomer and Théoden in the process, and he didn’t let his pride get in the way of trying to make amends.

He hardened his heart against any soft thoughts of Bilbo, saving himself from so much heart ache; it came at the cost of feeling anything at all, not that he’d ever admit that. He felt only a vague sense of dread settled over him like a second impermeable skin, anything else – enthusiasm, amusement, even anger – simply bounced off him. He walked around with a stony expression, going through the motions: existing rather than living, as they waited for what was going to happen next.

It was at night that his hardened heart softened and the second skin lifted away, allowing all the emotions he couldn’t feel during the day in to his dreams. He dreamt of Bilbo, and the dreams were so _real –_ he swore he could feel him, hear him even in the moments after waking, fingers reaching for him; but then the cloak would close and his heart turned cold and he felt nothing at all again.

Three days later Nori appeared in the hideout, looking jittery and nervous.

“What’s happened?” Bofur asked as they all congregated around the Thief; Thorin couldn’t even feel curiosity at his answer.

“Nothing’s ‘appened,” Nori reassured them all. “At least, not yet. You all need to come up to the inn. Please.” he looked to Thorin. “It’s important. Bombur’s up there waitin’ with Dís and Fíli.” Thorin wasn’t sure he wanted to see them – he couldn’t bear the disapproval in Dís’ eyes and the blame in Fíli’s.

“Why upstairs?” he asked Nori. He couldn’t feel the suspicion but he knew it was there; it was strange that Nori would feel the need to bring them all together and away from the safety of the tunnels just to tell them something.  There was something happening, something more he was missing, but he couldn’t work it out. He narrowed his eyes at him.

“Just trust me, please,” Nori said. “Have I ever given you cause to doubt me?”

He had a point. Thorin glanced at Balin, who raised his eyebrow as if to say it was Thorin’s decision not Balin’s; Thorin nodded and gestured that they all should head up to the inn. The Sons filed out of the tunnel, arriving in Théoden’s inn – which was empty of customers, the man sitting at a table with Éowyn and Éomer, looking confused himself. Thorin gave him a short nod and a hard look to Éomer before turning away, seeing his sister and niece on the other side of the room, Bombur beside them. Fíli was sitting still as stone, not looking at him, while Dís kept shooting curious looks over to her right, at Éomer.

Thorin took a seat next to the door, slightly apart from the others, and ignored the flash of annoyance on Dís’ face because of it. The others all followed suit and began to sit – all except for Nori, who stood in the middle of the room looking – of all things – nervous.

“Come on, Nori,” Thorin said impatiently. “Tell us what all this is about.”

“You’re not in trouble, are you?” Dori asked suddenly. “I’ll have your hide if you’ve done something stupid, Thief or not–”

“I ain’t in trouble, Dori,” Nori said, insulted. “Leastwise, no more than the rest of you. No, I had to bring you all here because... Because…” he seemed to be struggling to find the words and now Thorin’s skin was starting to prickle, something itching under his second skin of detachment.

“Spit it out, Nori,” he said sharply. “What are we all doing here?”

“Promise me something first,” Nori said. “Promise you’ll just hear him out before you say anything.”

“What are you talking about?” Dís asked. “Who do we have to listen to?” the Sons were all murmuring now, their voices growing louder in their confusion as they all asked the same question. Nori shook his head and moved to the door; he pulled it open and stuck his head out. From his seat near the door Thorin could hear him speaking to someone. “Come on. This is what you wanted.” The other person’s voice was too low for Thorin to hear, but then Nori was back inside and this time, someone followed him.

Thorin took in the white robes, the bronze curls and slightly pointed ears; his heart began to hammer against his chest, suddenly alive in his cold chest; his pulse was racing and he could hear blood rushing in his ears. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. he couldn’t hear anything beyond the blood pounding through his body, his entire being focussed on this one impossible thing in front of him that _couldn’t_ be true and yet it was, it _was –_ it was right in front of him–

“Hello,” Bilbo Baggins said sheepishly, looking around him at the Sons.

Thorin stood suddenly, chair scraping against the wooden floor and the movement made Bilbo’s eyes flick to him.

“No.” No, this couldn’t be happening – he’d wished and hoped and prayed for this every day for a month and now – now, just when he’d learnt to accept this emptiness – Bilbo was _back?_ “No, you can’t be here.”

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo said, a frown puckering his face; his hands were fisting in his robes nervously and Thorin noticed the movement, just as he noticed every tiny little detail about the man he was still hopelessly in love with and yet at this moment in time couldn’t _bear_ to see.

“No. I saw you _fall,”_ Thorin said and anger was rising in him, making his own fists clench and his voice hard as ice. “All I wanted was for you to come back but you never did – we thought you were dead – and _now_ you’re back?”

Bilbo’s face had turned white, not taking his eyes off Thorin for a moment; the rest of the Sons had fallen utterly silent and Thorin had forgotten they even existed. All he could see and hear was Bilbo, every painful thud of his heart seemed to scream out his name – Bil- _bo,_ Bil- _bo,_ Bil- _bo_ –

“I wanted to come back sooner,” Bilbo said, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

“ _How_ are you back?” Thorin demanded harshly. He could feel his voice growing louder, his chest was burning up, his lungs being squeezed so tightly he couldn’t breathe. “ _Why_ are you back? Why now?” he couldn’t figure out if he was more amazed that Bilbo was alive at all or why he was there in the first place. He took an unconscious step forward, unable to believe that Bilbo was in front of him. He felt unsteady, as if the world was shifting beneath his feet; he felt angry that Bilbo had come back to ruin his new-found stability.

He thought he could see tears glittering in Bilbo’s eyes – but that couldn’t be right, what did he have to cry about when _he_ wasn’t the one who’d had to watch the one he loved die in front of him and be unable to do anything to stop it happening – but his jaw was set in an expression of such familiar determination that it stole the very breath from Thorin’s lungs.

“I needed to see you,” Bilbo said quietly. “To warn you all–” He took a step towards Thorin, who stumbled backwards.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, don’t.” He choked on the words; he couldn’t stand it.

And Thorin Oakenshield the coward did what he always had: he fled.

He rushed blindly out of the Meduseld, uncaring of anything at that moment except for putting as much distance as possible between himself and this…this ghost of Bilbo. He didn’t care about the others, he didn’t care about the guards in black who might find them or who their master was. All he knew in that moment was that he had to get away before his throat cut off his breath completely and his eyes succumbed to the prickling of tears to come.

He wasn’t sure how he ended up there but he found himself at the edge of the city, where it met the ocean. The autumn wind was strong and the waves were fierce, crashing onto the shore with a violence that echoed in his ears, his blood still pounding loudly in his head. The force of the waves, white with foam, made his own anger seem small in comparison and he felt it ebb away with each pull of the waves in against the sand, drawing it out of him like a poison.

He headed to one of the fishermen’s old warehouses and sat in the doorway, sheltered from the breeze; he stared out at the water and breathed in the smell of brine and salt and fish.

His heart was still thudding painfully, though it had slowed to a heavy chant, still spelling out Bilbo’s name.

Bil- _bo,_ Bil- _bo,_ Bil- _bo._

It scared him how much he was feeling. Could Bilbo really be back? It had looked like him, sounded like him, behaved like him – and Nori may be a man of many talents, but even he couldn’t summon the dead.

But Thorin had waited and waited, holding onto his belief that Bilbo had survived and was somewhere out there, that he’d come back; he’d guarded it and kept it safe even in the face of the others’ reason and pity, and still Bilbo hadn’t come back. And now, when Thorin had finally rebuilt his walls, he had come back to knock them down without even trying.

There was anger in him – anger and resentment – but deep within him was a ball of warmth, steadily growing as Thorin remembered the sight of Bilbo standing before him, just the same as he’d ever been. His curls, his green eyes, his snub nose – it was all there, everything Thorin had loved – still loved – and it made his breath come in short gasps to think he might hear that voice again, have those eyes on him, see those lips curve into a smile meant for him one more time.

He was also cripplingly scared. He was frozen in fear even as he wanted to jump for joy. There was no way Bilbo would want Thorin in the same way Thorin wanted him, _needed_ him. The thought of losing him a second time, but this time being reminded of his loss every time he saw him – Thorin didn’t think he’d survive that. There were only so many blows the heart could recover from. Losing Bilbo the first time had nearly sent him mad; losing him again would surely be the death of him.

And yet Thorin knew he was selfish enough he would happily accept his death if it meant he could spend even another moment with Bilbo; he would accept whatever scraps the man was willing to give him if it meant even the smallest of Bilbo’s attentions.

He sat there until the tide started to come in and the water was turned a fiery orange as the sun set. He was grateful for the fur on his cloak as the bitter wind pulled with cold fingers at his robes.

He hurried back to Rohan, simultaneously looking forward to and dreading what he’d find there. Would Bilbo have stayed? What if he’d left, after Thorin had spoken to him like that?

Then it would have been as if a dream, fleeting then gone, and Thorin would have ruined his chances and Bilbo would exist only in his mind.

But if he was there – then Thorin would have to deal with the way his heart tried to leap out of his chest just at the thought of Bilbo, how his lungs stopped working and his hands trembled. He didn’t know what he was more scared of, what he wanted. Either way his heat didn’t stand a chance.

It was still early by the time he got back to Rohan, though the sun had nearly set and the world was nearly dark; it was with no small amount of trepidation that Thorin entered the tunnel leading to the hideout. He forced himself to think about each step and each step only, each placing of his feet one in front of the other, and not about how each one took him towards either regret or pain.

He heard the rest of the Sons in the living room, their chatter excitable and laughter loud. Beneath the full-bodied chuckles and roars of the Sons was a lighter laugh that made Thorin stop in his tracks. So Bilbo had stayed. He was still here; Thorin’s heartbeat quickened and he had to force himself to keep moving.

He appeared in the doorway, ignoring the way the other Sons all fell silent. He could see Dís and Fíli there, and even they offered him an encouraging smile, as if with the coming of Bilbo they’d forgotten their anger at him.

His eyes landed on Bilbo Baggins, surrounded by the Sons, and his breath left him in a rush. He didn’t know what to do so he settled for a nodding politely, hoping Bilbo wouldn’t see the way his stomach was doing strange acrobatics or notice his feelings in his eyes.

He couldn’t stay and join in, not if he had any hope of keeping up any form of pretence at how much Bilbo’s reappearance affected him; once Bilbo had returned the nod he turned around and made to leave but froze when Bilbo said his name.

“Thorin,” he said and Thorin turned back immediately. Bilbo had stood up and looked hesitant; Thorin saw him swallow before he spoke again. “I’d like to talk to you for a moment,” he said. “If you don’t mind,” he added, looking down at the floor and then up at Thorin from under his lashes. Lump in his throat, Thorin nodded.

“Of course,” he said, grateful his voice gave nothing away. Bilbo looked around at the others, smiling softly at them as he moved towards the door. Thorin stood back and watched him as he walked towards him, ignoring how his heart was racing.

“I’ll just be a moment,” Bilbo was saying, his face lighting up at something Bofur or one of the others said; when he reached the doorway he looked up at Thorin nervously. Thorin clenched his fists in his cloak to stop himself doing something stupid, like reaching out to touch his cheek or hair.

All Bilbo wanted was a word. A quick talk and then he’d go back to the others – the others, who were more cheerful than Thorin, more fun than Thorin, who didn’t make him look like he was walking to his doom. Thorin turned abruptly and started walking down the corridor to his chamber before stopping – perhaps he should have gone to his study instead – but it was too late now, his study was the other way. Bilbo didn’t seem fazed and stepped inside without hesitation when Thorin opened the door and moved to the side to let him pass.

Bilbo stood in the middle of the small room and Thorin turned and shut the door; if he shut it more carefully than was strictly necessary so that he didn’t have to look at Bilbo for just a few moments longer, well. Only he had to know.

They regarded each other for a few moments in the low light from the lamp, Thorin trying to hide how desperately he wanted to reach out for him.

“I waited for you every day,” Thorin said quietly and Bilbo jumped at the sound of his voice. “The others all told me I was being foolish, but still I hoped.” Thorin turned away, facing the wall of his chamber so he didn’t have to look at Bilbo and clasping his hands behind his back so they couldn’t wander. “I hoped and prayed you’d come back, but you never did, and it was hard – so hard–”

He couldn’t stop the shuddering breath he let out then, or hide the way he couldn’t breathe in properly except in ragged gasps. His eyes were prickling and he screwed them shut, hoping to stave off the inevitable for as long as possible. He still had some pride left, after all. “I would have done _anything_ to bring you back, Bilbo.” He felt the tears come then and he cursed himself, cursed his weakness that had him weeping in front of the one person who couldn’t possibly know what he meant to him–

His eyes flew open at the feel of cool hands on his face and he found Bilbo in front of him, reaching up to cup his face and his own eyes wet with tears threatening to spill.

“I’m so sorry, Thorin,” he said, his voice thick and it was the final straw – that voice, that had haunted Thorin in his dreams and in his waking moments–

Thorin let out a shuddering gasp and brought his own hands up to Bilbo’s face, cupping his round cheeks in hands that were so much larger than the ones holding him.

“Is it really you?” he asked, uncaring of the tears now flowing freely down his face. “Tell me it’s you – that I’m not dreaming.”

“It’s me,” Bilbo said, his voice watery even as he gave a weak chuckle. “It’s really me, Thorin, it’s me–”

Thorin leant forward and pressed their foreheads together, pouring all his love into the simple gesture: so that even if he couldn’t have Bilbo how he wished, then Bilbo could at least know Thorin’s regard for him–

And the next thing he knew Bilbo’s hands on him had moved to his neck, pulling his head down as he stood on his toes and pressed his lips to Thorin’s.

Thorin froze in surprise at the feel of Bilbo’s soft lips against his, more a peck than anything, and then Bilbo was pulling away but he kept his hands on Thorin, his eyes fixed on Thorin’s, which were wide in shock – even his tears had stopped. He could feel one running into his beard. Bilbo’s eyes were wide and sparkling with his own tears but there was no guile, nothing except a love Thorin never expected to see.

“I love you, Thorin Oakenshield,” he said softly. Thorin couldn’t believe his ears and he shook his head, but Bilbo’s hands were back on his face, forcing him to meet his eye. “I love you,” he said, more fiercely this time. “By the lady, I love you so much it nearly kills me–”

Thorin stopped the words pouring from Bilbo’s mouth with another kiss, just a chaste press of lips before he kissed away Bilbo’s tears, the salt sharp on his tongue; he kissed his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, feeling Bilbo’s damp eyelashes flutter against his lips as he gave a weak chuckle. Thorin paused with their foreheads pressed together, still cupping Bilbo’s face with his hands and their lips just an inch away. His eyes were closed.

“You have no idea how long or how much I’ve loved you,” he said roughly. His thumbs stroked away the tracks left on Bilbo’s cheeks by his tears. “Mahal, it drives me mad how much I need you – and then watching you fall, Bilbo, I can’t stand it–”

Bilbo made gentle hushing noises, his hands gripping Thorin’s chin and one moving to brush away a strand of hair from his face. Thorin felt his hand pause at his ear, where there were no longer a braid, but then it carried on its gentling movement, stroking his hair softly. “It’s alright,” he was whispering. “It’s alright, Thorin, I’m here now.” He pressed another kiss to Thorin’s lips and this time Thorin didn’t let him go, his hands moving to the nape of Bilbo’s neck and holding him close as he responded in kind. It was still chaste and gentle, but there was an underlying need to it, a promise; when they parted it was with hitched breaths and pulses beginning to race.

“Thorin,” Bilbo breathed, looking up at him wide eyes.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said and in response Bilbo kissed him again, this time his tongue licking the seam of Thorin’s mouth so that it opened for him and suddenly there was nothing chaste about it all. The room seemed to be a few degrees too warm but still Thorin pulled Bilbo closer, needing to feel the warmth of his body against his. Bilbo’s hands had moved to fist in his hair in the way he had before but this time the effect was a hundredfold, because this time he loved Thorin, he was _his_ – Thorin couldn’t stop the low grumble that escaped him as he guided Bilbo backwards to the bed. They landed heavily, Bilbo letting out a small puff of air as he sat.

He was breathing heavily, his pupils dilated and lips red from Thorin’s kisses. The sight made Thorin’s heart thud painfully fast. His hand found Bilbo’s and he twined their fingers together before leaning in again and Bilbo didn’t resist, his thumb stroking Thorin’s palm and wrist with a feather-light touch even as their kiss deepened and even though Thorin knew it was real, had the proof in his arms, he still couldn’t believe Bilbo was here. That Bilbo was his, was kissing him and touching him and _loved_ him.

Bilbo suddenly pulled his hand away, though didn’t pull away from the kiss even as he shifted so that he was kneeling on the bed, Thorin tilting his neck up. He felt Bilbo’s cool fingers pushing at his cloak and didn’t resist as the material fell from his shoulders; he only stroked his hands along Bilbo’s arms and did the same, pulling the robes from Bilbo’s body. He couldn’t stop his hands from running along Bilbo’s skin, and he broke away from the kiss long enough to press a kiss to Bilbo’s neck, making his breath hitch.

He nipped at the skin at the junction of Bilbo’s neck and shoulders, where the skin was soft and unblemished, before soothing it with a swipe of his tongue. Bilbo seemed to freeze but then relaxed as Thorin pressed a kiss to the mark he left behind; Thorin licked a stripe up his neck to his jaw and made to leave another little mark, but Bilbo pulled away then, busying Thorin’s lips with a kiss instead. Thorin didn’t protest, but filed away the knowledge.

It was slow and languid, no rush to it as they removed each other’s clothes. At this moment in time, they may as well have had all the time in the world; Thorin wasn’t letting Bilbo away for even a moment. As Bilbo’s skin was bared to him Thorin couldn’t stop the rush of desire he felt, and was pleased when he saw Bilbo swallow thickly as his own clothes came off.

Bilbo’s skin was littered with scars now; he had a new one on his stomach, the tissue still a deep purple. Thorin knew that must have been where Smaug – where he’d – He swallowed and shook his head to clear the thought. And there were the little white lines, the new ones of clumsily healed scar tissue. Ugly they may be, but to Thorin they were beautiful. He bent to kiss the one just above Bilbo’s nipple, wanting him to know that he didn’t care how he’d got them – it was behind them – but Bilbo froze in his arms, going rigid.

He pulled away, one hand coming up to stroke Bilbo’s cheek. Bilbo closed his eyes, turning his face from him.

“Please don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t look at them.”

Thorin was surprised. “Why?” he asked, turning Bilbo’s face back to him but the Child kept his eyes closed. “They’re part of you, Bilbo. That makes them beautiful to me.”

“No!” Bilbo hissed and he opened his eyes, which were suddenly glittering bright with tears. “Don’t say that, Thorin, please. That’s – that’s –” He took a shuddering breath. “That’s what he said. When he made them.”

“He?” Thorin asked, something fierce and primal rearing in him at Bilbo’s words. He forced it down, focussing on keeping his voice gentle and soft. Bilbo looked at him, his eyes telling him everything he needed to know. “Smaug,” he spat out the word. Bilbo flinched and pressed a finger to his lips.

“Don’t say his name,” Bilbo pleaded. “I don’t want to think about him, please, I can’t.”

“It’s alright,” Thorin gentled him, running his hands across Bilbo’s back until his breathing had calmed down. He craned his neck to kiss him again, searing hot and incredibly dirty. It seemed to work as a distraction; soon enough Bilbo was letting out soft little pants as Thorin kissed his way down his body as he pressed him down into the bed. His eyelids were fluttering delightfully as Thorin’s lips travelled across his skin, pressing soft kisses to his navel, to the insides of his thighs, everywhere except where he needed it most.

“Thorin,” he let out a needy whine and Thorin hummed.

“Yes, my sweet?”

“ _Please,_ ” Bilbo gasped, and who was Thorin to refuse?

He pressed a kiss to the tip of Bilbo’s shaft, already leaking little pearls; at Bilbo’s stifled gasp Thorin opened his mouth and took him in, enjoying the noises it pulled from Bilbo. He was leaking a steady stream of fluid and Thorin lapped it, alternating between long open-mouthed kisses and sucking, sometimes pulling off and licking stripes up the velvety hard flesh. His own cock was throbbing, almost painfully hard, but he ignored it in favour of pulling all the little gasps and whimpers from Bilbo until he was muttering nonsense, the only words that made sense ‘Thorin’ and ‘please’.

Bilbo cried out as Thorin swallowed him whole, his hips thrusting wildly and Thorin had to press them down to keep him still. The liquid leaking from Bilbo’s cock started to turn bitter and Thorin knew he was close.

“Thorin, I’m – I’m–”

Thorin hummed around the cock in his mouth, cupping Bilbo’s tight little balls; he felt them twitch and Bilbo was coming, filling Thorin’s mouth with his seed and Thorin swallowed it all faithfully. Bilbo was lying limp, breathing heavily, but he pulled Thorin up to kiss him, darting away at the last moment to lap up the seed that Thorin hadn’t managed to swallow and had escaped into his beard. The kiss he gave him afterwards was dirty and wet and Thorin thought he could come just from that kiss alone. His cock was jutting out proud and leaking from his body, leaving a shiny trail where it knocked against Bilbo’s stomach. Bilbo smiled into the kiss, pulling away and looking at Thorin with heavy-lidded eyes as he reached between them.

It didn’t take long until Thorin was gasping Bilbo’s name into the crook of his neck as Bilbo coaxed his orgasm out of him with those soft, clever hands. He slumped down beside Bilbo, chest heaving, and pulled him into his arms, uncaring of the stickiness on their bodies; it was unimportant compared to the warmth of Bilbo beside him. Bilbo didn’t protest; he pressed even closer and hooked his leg over Thorin’s. He was running his hands along Thorin’s shoulders, arms, chest, as if checking he was really there. Thorin smiled and pressed a kiss to his curls, breathing in the smell of him.

Neither of them made any attempt to move, Thorin far too comfortable to even think about leaving Bilbo’s warm embrace now. He carded his fingers through Bilbo’s hair, still in awe that Bilbo was with him. Bilbo’s breathing was soft and even now; Thorin wondered if he’d fallen asleep.

“The others will be wondering where you’ve got to,” he said into the silence of the room. Bilbo jumped a little and Thorin smiled; he’d drifted off.

“They’ll just have to keep wondering,” he said, a yawn escaping from him. He snuggled closer to Thorin, pressing his face to his chest. “Unless you want to go out there with me and explain why I’ve got these marks all over my neck.”

Thorin laughed, pure happiness bubbling out of him from low in his belly. Bilbo opened one eye in disgruntlement, though Thorin could see he was fighting to keep from smiling.

“It’s not funny, Thorin,” he said in mock indignation. “Whatever will people think?”

Thorin pressed a kiss to his forehead and untangled their limbs, pulling a very disgruntled whine from Bilbo. “They can think whatever the hell they want,” Thorin said, voice low, as he sat up and stretched. Behind him Bilbo made a little noise.

“That’s really very unfair of you,” he said and Thorin flexed his shoulders, preening under Bilbo’s attention. “If you insist on doing that I shan’t let you out of this bed ever again,” Bilbo said seriously as Thorin stood up and moved to the small wash basin in the corner, wetting a rag and wiping himself off.

“That would suit me very well indeed,” Thorin rumbled. “Sorry it’s cold,” he said softly as he moved back over to Bilbo and cleaned him. He didn’t bother trying to salvage the sheets, throwing the rag in the bowl and moving back to the bed, this time getting under the covers and urging Bilbo to join him. Bilbo rolled his eyes but did so without hesitation; he fit so perfectly against Thorin and they lay there for a while, Thorin toying with Bilbo’s curls as Bilbo drew patterns on the hard planes of Thorin’s chest.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said after a while. Bilbo stilled, looking up at Thorin.

“That sounds serious,” he said.

Thorin smiled and caught Bilbo’s hand where it rested on his chest. “You didn’t like it when I made the marks on your neck.”

Bilbo didn’t say anything for a long moment. “No,” he said eventually.

“Is that… Did Smaug do that to you too?” Thorin asked, feeling sick even as he asked it. He should just leave it, but he had to know – what else would make Bilbo shy from his touch? What else would make him fear Thorin’s caresses?

Bilbo let out a shaky breath. “Yes,” he whispered. Thorin remembered seeing bruises on him, on his arm and neck – he’d never even have thought they were bites like that. He pulled Bilbo closer.

“What did he do to you?” he asked softly.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Thorin,” Bilbo said, turning his hand where it was trapped under Thorin’s so that they were holding hands. “It’s not something I want to remember.”

“I understand,” Thorin said thickly. He didn’t want to think about Bilbo in that position, about Smaug touching him – it was hardly surprising Bilbo didn’t want to remember it.

“No, you don’t,” Bilbo said, and he twisted in Thorin’s embrace so that he was on his stomach, looking at Thorin face-on. “You don’t understand. I don’t want to remember it because it reminds me of what I had to do, of how I _betrayed_ you. It kills me every time I think about it, think about what you must have thought of me.” He bit his lip. “I only did it to protect you, Thorin. Please forgive me.”

Thorin gripped his hand tightly and kissed him, just a soft press of their lips. He didn’t move away after and they stayed like that for a long moment, breathing each other’s air and faces so close Thorin could feel Bilbo’s eyelashes brushing his cheek.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said and Bilbo let out a breath in a rush, kissing him again and Thorin could _taste_ his relief.

“I love you, Thorin,” he said and Thorin smiled against his lips.

“I love you, too,” he whispered and his heart swelled at being able to say those words out loud.

They lay back down then, Bilbo curling up against Thorin and pressing his cold feet against Thorin’s warm ones. Thorin finally felt complete, as if he finally had what he’d been searching for all these years. Bilbo’s breathing slowed as he drifted towards sleep and Thorin couldn’t take his eyes off him, needing to reassure himself that this was real. His hand carded through Bilbo’s hair and Thorin’s heart felt as if it was going to burst with happiness. To think he’d have given this up in favour a life of numbness.

“Thorin, go to sleep,” Bilbo mumbled, his voice muffled against Thorin’s chest. Thorin smiled. “I can feel you watching me, you know.”

“I can’t,” Thorin said. “I can’t risk waking up and finding this was all a dream. I don’t want to wake up and find you gone.”

“I’ll be here when you wake up, you stubborn old man,” Bilbo sighed happily, his voice thick with sleep. “Now sleep, Thorin.”

Thorin closed his eyes and did his best to do as he was told, though he didn’t let go of Bilbo’s hand. But he couldn’t stop the tiny, tiny part of him from worrying anyway. He never wanted to wake up without Bilbo by his side again.

“Bilbo?” he said softly into the darkness, sure Bilbo was asleep, but Bilbo made a disgruntled noise.

“Mm?”

“Promise me you won’t leave me again.”

Bilbo didn’t say anything, but his hand squeezed Thorin’s tightly for a moment.

“You know I can’t do that.”

Thorin knew he was right and he didn’t protest, but still his heart squeezed painfully at the thought. He did his best to ignore it and sleep; when he eventually drifted off he slept better than he had in months, a deep sleep without any dreams to trouble him.

 

***

 

Bilbo woke feeling more comfortable than he had in months; he didn’t open his eyes, not wanting to dispel the illusion – this couldn’t be real, after all.

But then he heard a soft snore and froze, the memories of last night flooding back in a rush and making him flush hotly. He opened one eye hesitantly, as if afraid of what he’d find, and was greeted by the sight of a hard chest and a mass of dark hair spread across the pillow; and Thorin – oh, Thorin – was holding him close. Bilbo’s stomach fluttered with nerves and disbelief and he opened his eyes fully, shifting a little within Thorin’s grip so he could see the man’s face. His movements made Thorin tighten his hold on him and let out a disgruntled noise as he pulled him closer; Bilbo let himself be pressed against Thorin’s warm body, a smile on his face. He didn’t think he’d ever stop smiling.

He watched Thorin for a long moment, one hand coming up to his chest and simply feeling the strong heartbeat, slow in sleep but steady. Thorin’s face was relaxed, his habitual frown nowhere to be seen. But Bilbo’s eyes travelled over his face and took in every tiny detail, from the downturn of his mouth to the new lines by his eyes and on his forehead. He remembered the lack of braids in Thorin’s hair and brought the other hand up to stroke away the strands at Thorin’s ears, regretting their loss. He ran a finger along the soft shell of Thorin’s ear, across his strong brow and down his sharp nose before coming to rest on his cheek, cupping it gently.

Yavanna, the things his heart was doing in his chest – he was lucky it hadn’t already given out on him. He still couldn’t believe this was real, that Thorin really was here and was his, had forgiven him and taken him back. It still scared him, made him feel cold, to imagine the other possibility: that Thorin might have refused to see him, thrown him out and wanted nothing more to do with him. He smiled softly and moved back to stroking Thorin’s tangled hair, simply observing him. He felt complete, whole; it felt as if they’d been together their whole lives and not one night.

Thorin’s eyes began to flutter and then opened, unfocussed for a moment before they saw Bilbo and he blinked, his lips curving into a smile that made Bilbo’s heart stutter in his chest and he smiled back.

“Who’s watching who now?” Thorin asked, his voice low and rumbling in his chest and _oh,_ that voice did things to Bilbo, his toes curling unconsciously at the sound.

“Hush,” he said softly, pressing a finger to Thorin’s lips. “You’re spoiling my dream.”

Thorin’s smile widened and he pulled Bilbo closer to him, making him squeak with undignified surprise as he rolled them over so that Thorin was lying above him, supporting his weight on his elbows and his dark hair falling around them like a curtain.

“Are you sure?” he asked, amusement in his voice.

Bilbo sniffed, though his heart was beating so fast it felt as if it really would beat right out of his chest at any moment. “Perfectly sure, I’m afraid.” He pulled Thorin’s head down closer so he could whisper in his ear. “Dreams don’t talk.”

Thorin made another rumbling noise from deep in his chest that sent thrills down Bilbo’s body.

“Well,” he whispered back, his breath ghosting over the tip of Bilbo’s ear. “I’ll just have to keep my mouth occupied, then.” And then he kissed him, slow and deep and Bilbo couldn’t even bring himself to care about how his breath must be less than fresh because what did it matter when he was here, in Thorin’s arms alive and well and being soundly kissed by the man in question?

“Better?” Thorin hummed when they finally broke apart, leaving Bilbo breathless.

“I suppose,” Bilbo grinned. He wriggled underneath Thorin and pushed at him until he flopped back down onto the bed and they were lying side by side again, Bilbo shifting in the crook of Thorin’s arm and laying his head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Thorin’s hands were trailing across his skin. It was his left side that was bared to him and he couldn’t feel Thorin’s fingertips, only aware of them thanks to the ghostly trail he could sense rather than feel. He had to swallow around the lump in his throat and push away the nausea that threatened to rise in him as the memory of Smaug assaulted him – Smaug doing the same thing, caressing the scars with a perverse pleasure.

He didn’t want to remember it; Smaug was gone, he was dead. He was never coming back, and this was Thorin, _his_ Thorin, who was as different from Smaug as could be.

They could hear sounds of movement from outside the room, the low hum of voices as the Sons rose and started the day. Bilbo didn’t want to get up, didn’t want to leave the safety of this bed, of Thorin’s arms; once they got up they’d have to face reality again, and reality was full of danger and things that would take Thorin from him and he didn’t want to think about that. Instead he focussed on the beating of Thorin’s heart, the smell of his skin and the rise and fall of his chest beneath Bilbo’s head.

“Frodo knew you’d come back,” Thorin said suddenly, making Bilbo pause, his hand stilling where it had been tracing invisible patterns on Thorin’s skin. He lifted his head and looked at Thorin, his heart twisting painfully.

“What do you mean?” he asked. He felt so guilty whenever he thought of Frodo, desperately wanting to go back and see him in the Shire – he’d come so close, once even making it to the Old Forest before turning back – but he couldn’t. What if he really _did_ die this time? It would hurt they boy too much to get him back only to lose him all over again.

“He never stopped believing you’d come back,” Thorin said, his hands still trailing over his skin and a look of such awe in his eyes, as if he still couldn’t believe Bilbo was there. “He told me you spoke to him, that you told him you’d be back. He reads aloud to the oak tree so that you’ll hear it.”

Bilbo didn’t say anything, his heart thudding in his chest. “He always had a wild imagination,” he said eventually, swallowing thickly. “I haven’t seen him since Prim and Drogo’s funeral.”

“I know,” Thorin said. “Maybe he’s just better at not giving up than I am.”

“Maybe,” Bilbo said, biting his lip. “Though it would be kinder on him if he did believe I was dead. It would make it easier for him.”

Thorin sat up, looking at Bilbo with a frown. Bilbo sat up too, noting the frown.

“You’re not going to go and see him?” he asked. “Tell Lobelia you’re alive?”

“I can’t, Thorin,” Bilbo said. “What if I go back and then I really _do_ die? What use would going back be?”

“They _miss_ you, Bilbo,” Thorin said heatedly. “They miss you and they want you back, they want to know you’re safe. That’s what use it would be.”

“And then when I’m killed by Sauron a week later?” Bilbo retorted, half pleading and half angry. “When this time it’s _my_ body you’re carrying back to the Shire in a cart? What about then? Would it still be a kindness then?”

Thorin stared at him for a moment and then he swallowed, shaking his head as his fists clenched and unclenched in his lap.

“Nothing’s going to happen to you, Bilbo,” he said roughly. “I won’t let it. I can’t lose you again, not now.” There was fear in his voice.

Bilbo opened his arms and Thorin leaned into him, pressing his face into the Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo’s hands stroked his back, feeling the hard muscle there.

“You can’t protect me from the world, Thorin,” he whispered. “You’re only human. Just flesh and blood, just like the rest of us.”

Thorin silenced him with a sudden kiss, desperate and needy, and when he pulled away and opened his eyes Bilbo could see there were tears glittering and ready to fall in those blue orbs.

“Your eyes.” He smiled as those eyes looked at him in confusion. “They were what brought me back.”

“My eyes?” Thorin repeated, and he sounded sceptical. Bilbo rolled his eyes.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Bilbo…how did you survive?” Thorin asked, looking down at his hand where it had reached for Bilbo’s, clasping it tightly.

Bilbo sighed and leant back against the pillows, pulling Thorin down beside him. “I don’t really know,” he admitted. “The last thing I remember is holding onto Smaug after I... you know. I must have held onto him as we hit the water and he broke my fall.” Thorin’s eyes were travelling over his face and Bilbo almost felt embarrassed at the intensity of the emotion in them. He dropped his own eyes, focussed instead on the strands of Thorin’s hair he was toying with. “I woke up in a man’s house in Lake-town. Bard, his name was. He took care of me, healed me. It was only my stomach that was really hurt and it healed fast. But–” He took a breath. “I’d have come back sooner, Thorin, except I didn’t remember you and I couldn’t walk.”

Thorin frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean exactly that,” Bilbo said, keeping his voice light. “My legs didn’t work, no matter how much I tried to get them to move. They weren’t broken or injured at all, they just didn’t work, and I couldn’t remember anything beyond my family, my life in the Shire and that I’d killed Smaug. You, the Sons, everything up until that moment I was in the air – gone.”

Thorin’s hand tightened around his so tight it almost hurt and Bilbo chuckled. “I knew there was something I needed to remember but I had no idea what it was. All I had was a pair of blue eyes which I kept seeing every night.”

Thorin brushed away a strand of hair from Bilbo’s face. “I kept hearing your voice. Every time I went out to the city, it was like I could feel you there. And all this time, you were in Lake-town.” He let out a laugh, half choked off. “You were so close and here I was giving up on you.”

Bilbo smiled. “I’d have given up on me too,” he said softly.

“I…I’m glad you came back, Bilbo.”

“Are you?” Bilbo teased, regretting the frown that creased Thorin’s face and wanting the easy familiarity of before. This had been such a long time coming – Lady, Bilbo had been denying how much he wanted Thorin for a good few months. Too long to let the past spoil what they had right now. “I was beginning to wonder. Perhaps I should have gone elsewhere – the others would have been equally eager to welcome me back, I’m sure–”

“No!” Thorin growled and rolled over onto Bilbo, making him squeak, a breathless laugh escaping him before Thorin captured his lips in a searing kiss, his hands travelling the length of his body and the hair on Bilbo’s body was standing on end, his breath snatched straight from his lungs. “You’re not going anywhere,” Thorin said when they pulled apart for air, Bilbo breathing heavily. Thorin’s expression was serious but his eyes were dancing with happiness and Bilbo reached up to tangle his hands in his hair, pulling him down again into another kiss that was demanding and intense and suddenly their lack of clothes was a potential problem – or not a problem, depending on how one looked at it; Bilbo was unable to think beyond the heat of Thorin’s lips and his tongue and his body and just everything about him, making Bilbo feel as if he had a fever and he couldn’t stop his hands from wandering, feeling every inch of Thorin’s body–

They were interrupted by a sharp knocking on the door and they broke apart guiltily, despite the fact there was no one there to see them. Bilbo was faintly embarrassed, as if he was a tween caught behind the Party Tree, but it was worth it to see Thorin’s lips red from Bilbo’s kiss and know that he was the reason for the blush on Thorin’s cheeks.

“Thorin, are you done buggering Master Baggins?” Dís’ voice sounded through the wooden door and Bilbo couldn’t help the choking sound that escaped him at her words. Thorin groaned, falling back down against the pillows and running a hand across his face. Bilbo laughed. “We’d quite like to see him again today, and it’s not very fair of you to keep him hostage in there.”

“Go away,” Thorin called gruffly, shooting the door a dirty look as if it was personally responsible for his sister’s presence on the other side of it. Bilbo did his best to hide his amusement but he evidently didn’t do a very good job as Thorin raised an eyebrow at him and pulled him down on top of him, his arms a comforting weight across Bilbo’s back.

“Just warning you,” Dís continued, her voice suddenly sweet. “I will come in there if you’re not out soon, and trust me, I’d really rather not do that.” Thorin threw his pillow at the door they heard Dís laugh. “Save us all the trauma, Thorin,” she sniggered before walking off.

Thorin groaned again and a frown puckered his face; Bilbo let his fingers trace the line and rub away the frown. Thorin caught his fingers and pressed a kiss to his hand.

“Come on,” Bilbo said, pulling his hand away and rolling off Thorin, pulling off the covers.

“I’d much rather stay here with you,” Thorin grumbled, catching Bilbo with an arm around his waist and pressing his face into the small of Bilbo’s back, making him laugh.

“Thorin,” he chided, removing Thorin’s grip on him and slipping off the bed. “You heard your sister. You can’t keep me all to yourself, you know.”

“I could try,” Thorin said, sitting up and moving to the edge of the bed before stretching in such a way that Bilbo’s mouth went dry. He smiled smugly and took advantage of Bilbo’s moment of distraction to pull him back onto Thorin’s lap. Bilbo only rolled his eyes, fighting to keep the smile off his face.

He twisted in Thorin’s arms and cupped the other man’s face in his hands, staring into those eyes the colour of the sky. “You’ll have me again tonight,” he promised. “I’m yours, Thorin. But we’ve got to go out there eventually. We can’t hide from it forever.”

Thorin pressed their foreheads together and they sat like that for a few long moments, Bilbo surrounded by the smell of Thorin, the feel of him, the sound of him and his heart felt like it might burst for happiness.

“Come on,” he said cheerfully, ignoring Thorin’s half-hearted protests as he moved to pick his clothes up from where they’d been shed the night before.

They’d be alright. They’d find a way to weather the coming storm, and maybe they’d destroy Sauron too if they could, but so long as Thorin was alive and well and _his,_ Bilbo was sure it would be alright. He pushed aside the doubts, the common sense that told him it wasn’t that simple; sometimes, it really was.

 

*

 

Eventually they made it out of Thorin’s chamber, fully dressed and presentable, much to Dís’ amusement. It felt surprisingly simple – just like before, when Bilbo would sit with the Sons and they’d talk and laugh. Fíli and Kíli were especially glad to have him back, Kíli hardly leaving him alone for a moment; Bilbo noticed how Fíli was a little cold towards Thorin, instead favouring sitting with her mother or among the other Sons, and he wondered at that. They told Bilbo everything that had happened in the month he’d been away, and Bilbo in turn told them of his recovery, of Bard, of his work in the streets.

“So _you_ were the White Shadow,” Dwalin said after Bilbo revealed his part in the stand-offs against the soldiers in the black armour. He smiled at Dwalin’s expression of surprise.

“It was me,” he nodded. “Though I didn’t know that was what they were calling me. It sounds a bit far-fetched, doesn’t it?”

“To think you were there all along,” Dwalin said, shaking his head. “Thorin never gave up on ye, y’know.”

Bilbo gave a tight little smile. “I know,” he said. “He told me.” he felt Thorin’s eyes on him from the other side of the room and his smile grew a little wider. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to this – this being in love, being _loved._ And the fact everyone in the room _knew –_ though they could hardly not know, not after Bilbo never had come back the night before after taking Thorin aside for a word. He really had only meant to have a word; Bilbo’s heart had been hammering away inside of him at the thought of being so close to Thorin, even though the man hadn’t wanted to see him, had stormed off at the sight of him and there was no way he could feel the same about Bilbo. But Bilbo had wanted to explain, to tell him what had really happened, why he’d come back; he couldn’t have known that Thorin had been hurting, that he’d loved Bilbo and loved him still.

It was a rare occasion where Bilbo was so very glad he’d been mistaken.

But it still felt strange to be _allowed_ to accept Thorin’s smiles, his soft looks, his gentle touches of his hand to his shoulder or arm. Bilbo had spent so long shying away from him – scared of him finding out how deep his feelings were, scared of him finding out about Smaug – that to actually be in his presence, surrounded by the rest of the Sons, was almost discomfiting. He tried not to let it show – knowing that the smile on Thorin’s face and the way he was actually laughing with his people was because of him made his heart swell, and knowing that Thorin was his made him simultaneously so happy he thought he’d burst and also cripplingly scared. But as evening approached, and the Sons started to get busy preparing dinner and taking full advantage of having Bombur with them, he couldn’t help the way he jumped and stiffened at Thorin’s gentle hand on his, the way he pulled his hand away as if burned.

“Are you alright?” Thorin asked as Bilbo forced himself to relax.

“Of course,” Bilbo said, turning to him and catching his hand, twining their fingers together. “It’s all just a little overwhelming.”

Thorin’s expression morphed into one of concern. “If you need some air, we can go outside–”

“No, it’s not that,” Bilbo cut him off, hoping his smile didn’t look forced. “It’s _this,”_ he squeezed Thorin’s hand a little, “this being _us._ ”

Thorin’s brow furrowed a little and he looked at Bilbo uncertainly, his hand closing around Bilbo’s before loosening, letting go. “Do you not…”

Bilbo caught his hand in both of his, clutching it tightly. “If you were going to say something silly along the lines of ‘do I not want to’, Master Oakenshield, stop that thought right there,” he said, bringing Thorin’s hand to his heart and a real smile curving his lips as he looked at Thorin. “I love you. It’s just that being so _open_ about it…it’ll take a little while to get used to is all.” He glanced down at their clasped hands, hyper aware of Thorin’s gaze on him. “And I’m so scared.”

Thorin brought his other hand up to lift his chin, forcing Bilbo to look him in the eye. “You don’t need to be scared,” he said softly.

Bilbo didn’t bother protesting; Thorin knew the threat of Sauron well enough. Instead he let himself believe Thorin’s words, let him press a soft kiss to his lips and pull him close, let the feel of Thorin’s body comfort him. For a moment the rest of the world didn’t exist, and when he eventually pulled away from Thorin he could almost pretend that everything was alright.

“Thorin,” Dís said softly and Bilbo twisted to look at her. “Balin’s looking for you.”

Thorin squeezed Bilbo for a moment before releasing him and Bilbo watched him go, feeling his heart stutter. He felt eyes on him and realised Dís was still looking at him, her expression thoughtful. Bilbo swallowed; when she realised he had noticed her watching him she smiled.

“I’m sorry,” she said, stepping closer. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m just having trouble believing it.”

Bilbo let out a little laugh. “You and me both. I keep thinking I’m making this up.”

Dís shook her head and there was something in her eyes despite the amusement on her face. “You do know that Thorin has been in love with you for months now, don’t you?” she asked and Bilbo felt his stomach give a little flip. “I don’t think even he realised it at first, but I saw it. I saw you become friends and I could tell that he’d already fallen hard.  And then I don’t know what happened between you but he was hurting, he refused to even talk about you…” she sighed. “Honestly, Bilbo, I think it broke him to lose you.”

Bilbo looked away, down at his feet. “I didn’t mean to die,” he said, feeling the need to defend himself.

“Oh, Mahal, I don’t blame you!” Dís exclaimed and she reached a hand out to rest on his shoulder. “Of course not. I just worry. I worry about what’s going to happen, I worry about you and I worry about him especially. But I am _so_ glad you’re back, Bilbo, really I am. It’s a miracle, and one he deserves after everything that’s happened.”

Bilbo let out a little laugh. “I wouldn’t go quite that far,” he said and Dís chuckled.

“You as good as came back from the dead, Bilbo. That’s a little bit miraculous. Just a tiny bit.” She squeezed his arm and then let go, stepping away. “I know I make fun of him, but that’s my job as his little sister. But don’t let us make you uncomfortable, Bilbo.”

And with that she turned and left, leaving Bilbo feeling warm. He stood there for a moment longer before also leaving the room and helping the others with dinner. It was loud and cheerful and Bilbo didn’t let himself think about the wolves at the door, the storm gathering on the horizon, and instead focussed on each and every smiling face around him and being grateful that he was there to see them.

He couldn’t help but notice the way Thorin would ruffle Kíli’s hair whenever the lad got in the way or asked a question with a wide smile on his face, and yet seemed almost...afraid of Fíli. The closest they came to interacting was over dinner when Thorin asked her to pass the potatoes; she did so without looking at him and Bilbo saw the way Thorin’s eyes flickered with something pained before the shutters came down again. He wanted to ask what had happened but decided that was not the moment, and instead waited until they were alone in Thorin’s chamber.

It hadn’t even been a question that Bilbo would share his bed again that night; he’d simply twined his fingers with Thorin’s and followed him out of the room, not letting go until Thorin’s door was safely shut behind them and Thorin’s hands were busy removing Bilbo’s cloak.

“What happened to Fíli?” he asked and Thorin froze, his hands stilling by Bilbo’s shoulders. His expression hardened a moment and he turned away.

“I found her with Éomer,” he said, still facing the wall as he removed his own cloak. “I didn’t react well. She hasn’t forgiven me.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said, watching as Thorin laid his cloak across the chair, his movements stiff.

“You knew about them.” Thorin’s words weren’t a question; he glanced back at Bilbo.

Bilbo hesitated. “Yes,” he said after a while. “I knew that they enjoyed each other’s company. I knew that Fíli liked him and that it might one day grow.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Thorin asked, pulling his shirt over his head and Bilbo’s mouth went dry at the sight of his strong back and shoulders, momentarily distracted. He rolled his eyes at Thorin’s question and moved forward, slipping his arms around Thorin’s waist, the other man going stiff at the contact.

“It was harmless,” Bilbo said. “You had other things to be worrying about and I figured you wouldn’t take it very well. I was right after all.” He smiled but Thorin still hadn’t moved and Bilbo retreated, taking a step back. “Did I do something wrong?” he asked, uncertainty creeping into his voice.

Thorin let out a breath and turned, his hands coming up to cup Bilbo’s face. “No,” he said. “You didn’t do anything wrong at all. It was I who over-reacted. It doesn’t matter.” Bilbo let him kiss him, let him deepen the kiss and pull the robes off his body, wanting nothing more than to feel Thorin’s skin against his own. He didn’t tell Thorin how Fíli had seen right through Bilbo, had known his feelings for her uncle, and how Bilbo was too afraid of Thorin finding out. There were some things he didn’t need to know.

Gradually they made their way to the bed in a flurry of exploratory touches and kisses and Bilbo felt as if he was burning up each time Thorin touched him, each press of lips to his skin. Thorin didn’t leave marks on him this time, which Bilbo was grateful for – he didn’t want the spectre of Smaug rearing its head, not when he loved Thorin with every fibre of his being and wanted nothing more than to be able to love him.

They fell asleep entwined, Bilbo nestled so close to Thorin he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began, and drifted off to the feel of Thorin’s fingers carding through his curls.

Much as Bilbo wished he could exist in his perfect little bubble with Thorin, he had known he couldn’t. He was right; the very next day their little bubble was burst and reality washed over them like icy water.

While they’d been busy reacquainting themselves with each other, hands leaving fiery trails on each other’s skin, Sauron had decided to strike. Erebor was burning; they saw the black plume of smoke rising above the city from the hill of the Meduseld.

“Why?” Bilbo whispered, aghast. Beside him, the Sons’ faces were grim and sombre as they watched.

“War.” Thorin spat out the word. “He’s declared war on the Sons of Durin, and this is just the start.” He turned to face the others, looking each of them in the eye in turn. He looked so much older, the lines on his face deepening with worry now the carelessness of sleep was gone, and Bilbo longed to reach and touch him, hold his hand, but he refrained. “My brothers,” he said softly, looking at each Son. “Sauron is making it clear he will not stop until we are all dead, but most of you are innocent of this crime he believes we committed. I will not force a single man here to stay: there is no shame in leaving Arda, if that is what you wish. Nor will I ask any of you who stay to die for this cause.” His gaze flicked to Bilbo for a moment, holding it and Bilbo gave him a small smile. “One here has already paid that price, and it was a price too great.” Bilbo felt his insides quivering at Thorin’s words, still unable to comprehend how it was possible to love someone this much. Thorin turned back to the Sons, who were watching him closely; Ori’s eyes were wide and Dís’ mouth was a hard line.

She stepped forward and took his hand, pressing her forehead to his. “We’re in this together, brother,” she said. “Just like always.” Bilbo saw Thorin swallow hard and nodded as she stepped away, taking a place at his side.

“You dinnae even need to ask,” Balin said and stepped forward and gripped Thorin’s forearms. Dwalin did the same.

“I ain’t leavin’ now,” he growled. “Not ‘til I’m dead.”

Bilbo noted the way he glanced at Ori as he took up his position at Thorin’s side and Ori’s cheeks flushed even as he too stepped forward, Dori glaring daggers at Dwalin as he followed his little brother. “You can count on us,” he said.

One by one the Sons stepped forward, expressing their desire to stay and help fight Sauron. Bombur would return to his inn, hope that it wasn’t too badly destroyed, and help the Sons and the Thieves from there.

It was then that Thorin turned to Bilbo and Bilbo could see Thorin hesitating. The Son stepped forward towards Bilbo, just a couple of paces away from the others, before he spoke quietly.

“I will not ask you to stay,” he said, looking at the ground.

“Thorin,” Bilbo interrupted but Thorin shook his head, holding up a hand.

“Please, Bilbo. I can’t ask you to stay and I will not, not after what you did for me already. Having you is a great comfort to me, and I won’t deny that–”

“ _Thorin,”_ Bilbo said but Thorin ploughed on, determined to say what he wanted and still not meeting Bilbo’s eye.

“–But I know you have your own people to protect. You don’t have to become embroiled in this war, and if you choose not to I will accept that and let you go in friendship.” He bit his lip. “You can do as you will.”

Bilbo forced him to look at him and saw the fear in his eyes. “You confounded, confusticated man,” he said softly. “I’m not going anywhere. My place is with you, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thorin swallowed and the emotion in his eyes was so intense it took Bilbo’s breath away.

“I do not deserve you,” he whispered hoarsely and his hands found Bilbo’s and clasped them so tightly it almost hurt, and Bilbo smiled.  

“I think I’ll be the judge of that,” he said softly and Thorin pressed their foreheads together gently, tenderly, as the smoke continued to rise against the blue of the autumn sky.

 

***

 

It was as if Bilbo’s arrival had given the Sons a new lease of life. Where they’d become restless, nervously complacent, now there was a new energy to them, an undercurrent of thrumming excitement simmering beneath the surface. There was fear too, of course, but at least they had _purpose_ now.

Having Bilbo back was more than Thorin could ever have hoped it would be. It scared him how much he cared for him, how his heart would swell and beat unevenly every time he was close to him and yet Thorin wouldn’t have it any other way. It was having him there when he woke in the mornings, his smaller body fitting perfectly against Thorin’s; it was having him there to give him an encouraging smile whenever Thorin had his moments of doubt; it was him simply being Bilbo and everyone loving him for it.

Of course it had meant more than some gentle ribbing from Dwalin, who told him on multiple occasions that if Thorin had managed to let Bilbo escape this time then he would have had to formally call for Thorin to step down as Master Assassin for gross incompetence. Thorin only punched him hard on the arm when he said that; even though he knew Dwalin was joking he didn’t want to imagine it. He’d got used to seeing Dwalin and Ori together in the long, long weeks without Bilbo, though he knew his friend had done his best not to be too obvious about it in front of him, but it had eaten away at him no matter how he tried to ignore it. But now...just being near Bilbo was enough to soothe the aches inside of him. He couldn’t imagine how he’d survived all those months being so near him and yet so far; he blocked out the memory of the agony he’d lived through in the weeks after Bilbo had gone.

Bombur and Dís had returned to Erebor to assess the damage to their businesses and Thorin couldn’t be grateful enough that they’d not been in the district when it had been torched. Thankfully the damage had only been minimal, Erebor being more stone than wood, though Bombur’s inn would have to be refitted because of the smoke damage. It made Thorin angry and more determined than ever to beat Sauron, to not just survive him but to _defeat_ him. Thorin had not lived the last fifteen years of his life in secrecy hiding from one Templar with a grudge only to spend the next fifteen hiding from another.

Fired by this determination, Thorin went up to the Meduseld and took Éomer aside. Fíli was still angry at him and he missed her so much; Kíli was also confused by his sister’s behaviour so Thorin decided to take matters into his own hands. Éomer regarded him warily as he led him to the storage room and Thorin did his best to look as unthreatening as possible.

“I’m sorry for how I reacted that day,” Thorin said. He still didn’t like the thought of Éomer and Fíli together – she was still so young and he was a man _grown_ – but Dís had told him he was being a fool and Thorin wanted his niece back, so he swallowed his resentment. “I’m willing to accept that she...is fond of you, and that you might feel same.”

“I do, sir,” he said. “Very much so.”

Thorin frowned and sighed. “Then just know this, Éomer. Anything happens to her – _anything_ at all – I get one inkling that she’s unhappy or you’re treating her wrong, and you will live to regret it.”

Éomer clenched his jaw and met Thorin’s narrowed gaze square on.

“You have my word.”

“She’s only young,” Thorin continued, not wanting to let go just yet. In the absence of her father Thorin was the next best thing. “Just remember that.” And with that he turned and headed back to their quarters to speak to Fíli. She was reluctant to talk to him at first until he told her he wouldn’t stop her seeing Éomer anymore. It was worth the wrench to his gut to see her eyes light up and the way she threw her arms around him before hurrying upstairs. He watched her go, hoping he was doing the right thing.

A couple of days after Erebor’s burning, Ori and Bofur approached him almost nervously. He was in his office with Balin, Dwalin and Bilbo, poring over maps and trying to work out a plan, when they knocked. Bofur was holding a little sack and Ori had a number of scrolls tucked under his arm.

“We’ve been thinking of how we can help,” Ori said with determination. He glanced at them warily, as if daring them to say something.

“What is it?” Dwalin asked and Ori looked at him adoringly. Dwalin’s expression was just as soft and Thorin interrupted their staring.

“What have you got?”

Ori jumped and straightened, heading towards the desk and depositing his papers, spreading them out one by one and revealing intricate drawings and diagrams. “Weapons,” he said with deep satisfaction in his voice and Thorin peered at them closer, the others leaning in too.

“These...are fantastic,” Bilbo breathed. He looked up at Ori. “Do you think you could really make these?”

Bofur grinned. “We already have.” he lifted the small sack he was holding. Thorin felt a little thrill of excitement run through him and they all traipsed out to the fields behind the Meduseld where they could demonstrate their new weapons.

Together Bofur and Ori had come up in shrapnel bombs that exploded in a burst of sharp pieces of metal which would embed themselves in a person’s skin, slowing them down if not stopping them completely; a variation on the smoke bomb that had something in the smoke that would make it impossibly difficult to breathe; perhaps the most amazing to Thorin was the tiny hidden gun. Bofur had built a prototype into his mechanical dagger, concealed within the mechanism and a hundred times more discreet than a proper pistol. He showed them how it worked, a tiny trigger on the underside of the mechanism; it took a couple of seconds to aim and had to be reloaded after each shot but Bofur was sure he could work out a way to minimise that. It was less subtle than darts or knives, but far more effective.

It was impossible not to feel a tiny bit hopeful after that.

Thorin went back and visited Lobelia and Frodo, feeling the need to keep up appearances – if he suddenly stopped communication with them Lobelia might grow suspicious, come and find them in the city, and that would reveal Bilbo to her. Thorin  tried to urge Bilbo to reconsider, to let him tell Lobelia he was back; at one point he seemed to be nearly convinced but then his resolve strengthened and he was stubbornly refusing again. Thorin was half tempted to tell her anyway, but he knew Bilbo would know if he did and he didn’t want to anger him. He knew Bilbo had a point and he was not telling them out of love for them; but Thorin knew what they were feeling, he knew the pain and knew it wouldn’t go away and yet Thorin _could_ make it go away.

But he kept to Bilbo’s wishes and said nothing. Lobelia seemed distracted as she asked about the Sons, about the fire in Erebor, and if she noticed anything off about his behaviour she seemed to put it down to his own worries about the events in the city.

Frodo was reading in the parlour when Thorin went to say goodbye, the weather finally becoming too cold to sit outside. Frodo gave him a big smile.

“I’ll see you again soon, Frodo,” Thorin said and leant down to give him a hug, doing his best to impart some of Bilbo’s love for the boy into it.

Frodo settled back down with his book and said, as casually as if he was merely mentioning the weather, “Say hello to Uncle Bilbo for me.”

Thorin froze. “What makes you say that, Frodo?” he asked, keeping his voice low. He didn’t want Lobelia to hear in case she got upset or angry again.

Frodo looked at him. “You’re happy again, Mister Thorin. And I saw him in my dream.”

“In your dream?”

Frodo grinned. “I knew he’d be back, just like he promised. But don’t tell Lobelia.”

Thorin’s stomach tightened momentarily but he smiled, unable to deny the happiness that simmered and bubbled through him knowing that Bilbo was waiting for him back in Rohan.

He gave Frodo a hug. “He’ll come back, Frodo. He loves you _so_ much and he’s going to come back to you.”

He made it back to Rohan without incident, thinking about Frodo’s words and how the lad had never given up on his uncle, when even Thorin had. He didn’t tell Bilbo about what Frodo had said; Bilbo would only worry and he didn’t want that.

Instead they lay together in the darkness that night, Thorin’s arm steadily going numb where it rested under Bilbo but he didn’t mind, enjoying the weight of him and the feeling of Bilbo’s hands carding through his hair.

“Why don’t you have your braids anymore?”

“Hm?” Thorin turned to face Bilbo, just able to make out his face in the dark of the room.

“Your braids. What happened to them?”

“Oh.” He stared back up at the ceiling, remembering the feeling of failure that had led him to take them out; the sickening feeling of defeat and having no chance of ever changing anything. “I didn’t feel I deserved them. I’d… I’d failed to protect you and had no idea how to protect my family and my kin.”

“You said before they meant hope,” Bilbo said softly.

Thorin hummed. “They did. And I didn’t have any hope for a long while, after you’d gone. Not when it seemed like everything we’d worked for was crumbling around us.”

He felt Bilbo’s hand clutch his and Thorin enveloped it in his own larger hand, shaking his head at how Bilbo could make him feel like this.

“We’ll get through this,” Bilbo whispered fiercely and Thorin smiled, though he knew Bilbo wouldn’t see it. “We’ll get through it, you’ll see.”

He turned his head so his face was buried against the warmth of Bilbo’s neck, breathing in the smell of him. “So long as you’re by my side, Bilbo,” he said, his voice rough. Bilbo’s hand cupped his cheek. “I can’t do it without you.”

If he lost Bilbo again, it’d be the death of him, he knew. Perhaps not immediately, perhaps not for weeks or even months, but eventually he would die, fade completely. Bilbo was his heart, and there was only so long one could survive without a heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're nearing the end :O


	14. Our Demons Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His hand came to rest at the base of Thorin's throat, tracing the lines of his collarbone._
> 
> _"The ghosts of our past never truly leave us."_
> 
> A new danger surfaces and Bilbo and Thorin must both face up to the demons of their past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are the absolute best and I appreciate every comment, kudos and read of this <3 
> 
> (Just a reminders: THERE WILL BE A HAPPY ENDING!!!)

  **Chapter XIV**

Thorin woke with a gasp, cold sweat beading on his forehead and his hands trembling.

He’d dreamt about the Arkenstone again; he’d dreamt of it sitting once again in the casket in the Durin’s mansion, which hadn’t been the gutted and empty building it was when he’d left it all those years before, but was instead rich and filled with life, as it had been when his father and grandfather were alive. In the dream he’d been in his grandfather’s office, the muted sound of servants rushing around. He’d heard his sister calling his brother’s name as they laughed outside; he’d heard his father’s strong voice booming out instructions.

He’d stepped closer to the Arkenstone, watching the colours in it swirl as the daylight caught it; he’d reached out a hand to touch it but his hand hadn’t been his – it had been gnarled, crooked, spotted with age and unsteady; suddenly the room was dark, the Arkenstone seemingly giving off a light all its own, and he’d heard voices, hissing in the darkness. He shied away from the stone but couldn’t move – he was frozen, the voices getting louder, worming their way into his head–

And he’d woken up, feeling nauseous. He breathed out slowly, trying to regain some control over his breathing and his heartbeat.

He would not think of that stone, that curse of his line.

_Why now was it coming back to haunt him?_

He turned in the darkness and moved to pull Bilbo closer to him, seeking reassurance in his warm skin, but his fingers found only cold sheets. He sat up, heart in his throat all of a sudden and hammering but for an entirely different reason now. Where was Bilbo? The sheets were cold; he’d not been in bed for a while.

Thorin threw off the covers and pulled on his shirt as he got out of bed, the stone cold on his bare feet but he paid it no mind – it was unimportant compared to Bilbo being gone – being missing – Thorin would not lose him now, he _couldn’t–_

He hurried out of his chamber, doing his best to ignore the way his lungs were squeezing so tightly he was finding it hard to breathe. Where would Bilbo be? “Bilbo?” he called quietly as he opened the door to what had been Bilbo’s chamber – though it hadn’t been used since he’d returned – but it was empty; his heart was stuttering painfully now and he turned around, ready to wake up the others, but he noticed a small light in the living room.

He rushed towards the living room and stopped in the doorway, letting out a choked breath in relief. Bilbo was sitting there on the hearth before the fire, cloak around his shoulders and his hands clasped around a mug of tea. The steam curled around his face in wisps and he was staring into the small fire; he glanced up in surprise when he heard Thorin’s exhalation. He was immediately concerned, his expression turning to one of confusion as he took in Thorin, his hair still wild from sleep and the way he was leaning against the doorframe in relief.

“Thorin?” he asked and Thorin’s throat closed up at the sound of his voice. He moved to join Bilbo on the hearth, uncaring of the cold of the stone floor beneath him as he wrapped his arms around Bilbo. Bilbo made a small noise and put his cup down beside him before bringing his own arms up to circle Thorin’s waist. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “What’s happened?”

Thorin didn’t say anything for a moment, instead pulling Bilbo closer to him and breathing in the scent of him.

“I thought you were gone,” he said eventually, voice hoarse. “I woke up and you weren’t there and I thought I’d lost you–”

Bilbo tightened his hold around him, making soft hushing noises and Thorin let himself be soothed by the feel of Bilbo beneath his hands, of Bilbo’s hands rubbing gentle circles on his back.

“I’m here,” Bilbo said softly. “I told you I’d be here, didn’t I?” He let go long enough to draw Thorin down to sit beside him, wrapping his cloak around the both of them. Now autumn was truly come the tunnels were cold, a permanent chill in the air. Now that he’d found him Thorin felt foolish – he’d panicked and thought the worst – but he couldn’t deny the relief that was still coursing through him.

“You never promised not to leave,” Thorin mumbled, not meeting Bilbo’s gaze and instead staring into the depths of the small fire.

Bilbo didn’t say anything, just clasped Thorin’s hands.

“You’re icy cold,” he said, holding his own hands around Thorin’s in an attempt to warm them up. “And you’re shaking,” he said after a moment, and Thorin pulled his hands away from Bilbo’s and clenched them into fists, trying to hide his body’s treachery. Bilbo reached up and guided Thorin’s face to him, forcing him to meet his eye. “What’s this about, Thorin?”

“I had a nightmare,” Thorin admitted. “And then you weren’t there and I was sc- I was worried.” He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

In answer to that Bilbo just pulled him closer, and Thorin let himself be guided; his head tucked against Bilbo’s chest as the Child’s chin rested on his head, his hands stroking through his hair still damp with the cold sweat from his dream.

“It’s alright to be afraid, Thorin,” he whispered, and pressed a soft kiss to Thorin’s head. Thorin closed his eyes and let Bilbo’s soft words and caresses lull him into a sense of safety, his eyes becoming heavy.

He must have slept then because the next thing he knew Bilbo was waking him up. He blinked blearily, momentarily disorientated before he remembered where he was.

“The others will be up soon,” he said, slowly getting to his feet.

“What time is it?” Thorin asked, still confused as he pulled himself to his feet too. Bilbo was headed to the kitchen and Thorin followed, watching as Bilbo set about boiling water.

“Nearly six,” he said. “Do you want some tea?”

Thorin nodded distractedly. Had Bilbo let him sleep on him for hours? Had Bilbo slept at all? He had shadows under his eyes but when he looked at Thorin his gaze was soft and he smiled.

“You shouldn’t have let me sleep like that,” he said, taking the mugs from Bilbo’s hands and spooning some tea leaves into the jug that constituted as their tea pot here. “You’re exhausted, Bilbo, you haven’t slept at all–”

“I’m alright, Thorin,” he said. “I couldn’t sleep anyway. At least this way you kept me company.” He gave Thorin a wide smile then and Thorin couldn’t stop himself from returning it.

“I was hardly the best company,” he said and Bilbo laughed, his hand coming to rest on Thorin’s.

“You were perfect,” he said quietly and brought Thorin’s hand up to press a gentle kiss to it. “Now go and get dressed before you die of cold, Thorin Oakenshield .”

Thorin did as he was bid, grateful for the warmth of his clothes as he dressed – he hadn’t realised quite how cold it was and his feet were painful for a good few minutes as he pulled on his socks and boots, so cold they’d gone beyond numb and now hurt. He could feel where Bilbo had kissed his hand as if it had branded him and he brought it up to his own lips, just for a moment, before shaking his head at himself and heading out to join the rest of the Sons who were getting up.

He spent most of the day continuing to practice with the hidden gun in his dagger, getting the feel for it until he could aim and shoot in a matter of seconds. It was loud, which meant he’d only be able to use it either in a loud place or if he’d already drawn attention to himself, but it would be much more accurate than trying to get a knife into someone from the same distance, and safer than getting close enough to use his hidden blade.

He went to see Dís that evening, and she seemed perturbed by something as he sat down on the sofa in her office. She was frowning, a deep furrow on her brow, and her mouth was a hard line.

“Sauron’s got a helper,” she said, not even waiting for him to settle and Thorin stiffened.

“What?”

“He has someone with him,” she said, waving her hands vaguely. “The men have all been talking about it. He’s just known as the Lieutenant.” She looked at him, her eyes sharp but worried. “They don’t know his name but apparently he’s Sauron’s right hand. Nobody’s seen Sauron without going through this man first.”

“And he’s known only as the Lieutenant?” Thorin asked.

“Yes,” Dís said, pacing up and down in front of him. “That’s all. The Lieutenant of the Tower sometimes, but no name.”

“He could be anyone,” Thorin said. Dís sat in the chair opposite him, her back ramrod straight. Her face was creased with worry.

“But he’s someone who has managed to work his way into Sauron’s confidence,” she said. “I don’t want to think about what that makes him to us.” Thorin said nothing to that and then she spoke again. “They said he’ll be coming into the city in three days’ time. He’ll be giving a speech, that sort of thing.”

Thorin looked up at her. “When? Where?”

Dís shrugged. “Near the Citadel I imagine. All the girls could get out of them was that it would be in three days.”

“We need to find out who this is,” he said, more to himself than anything. “See if there’s anything we can exploit, a weakness, something. Find out what their plans are, gauge the feeling of the city.”

“Thorin, you can’t go,” she said, voice aghast. “If you’re recognised, you’re dead – this is exactly what Sauron _wants_ , he wants you to be caught–”

“Dís, I have to,” Thorin said gently, reaching forward and catching her hands in his. “I have to take this risk, I _have_ to.”

“Thorin,” she said and her voice was hard as flint. “ _Promise me_ you won’t let yourself be caught. _Promise me._ ”

“I’ll do my best,” Thorin said, giving her a smile – or at least attempting to. It didn’t seem to allay her fears at all and she pressed her lips together even as she squeezed his hands tightly.

“You’re the only one I’ve got left,” she said softly. “Don’t let me lose you now.”

There was nothing he could say to that, so he simply pressed their foreheads together and hoped she would understand.

 

***

 

It was almost impossible to pass through the streets unnoticed now; Sauron’s soldiers in their black armour were everywhere, patrolling through the streets with their armour clanking and faces hidden in the shadows of their helmets. The guards under Smaug had been nuisances and sometimes cruel, but they’d also still been humans who could sometimes be persuaded to turn a blind eye or show compassion. But these soldiers...they showed no mercy, no scruples. It was almost as if they weren’t human.

Bilbo had managed to reach Bard’s house but only just, nearly being seen by one of the soldiers and it was only a stroke of luck that there had been a passing crowd he’d been able to blend into to escape the soldier’s sight.

“Bilbo!”

Tilda greeted him as he entered the house by running at him and wrapping her arms tightly around his middle and Bilbo couldn’t stop his smile. The greetings from the others were less energetic but just as enthusiastic. Bard’s eyes were warm as he hugged Bilbo but the Child could see the tightness to his smile, the hardness in his eyes.

“Things aren’t good,” he told Bilbo, mugs of tea clasped between their hands. “The soldiers are evil. People are scared.”

“It’s Sauron,” Bilbo sighed, staring into his tea. “We’re going to solve this, I promise, but it’s going to take time. He’s out for blood and...I can’t lose them again, Bard, not now.”

Bard gave him a small smile. “I wouldn’t ask that of you, my friend.”

Bilbo knew it was dangerous to let himself think that way, that putting his own wants above the needs of the city was selfish, but he couldn’t help it. If it came to it and he could save the city but at the cost of Thorin or any one of the Sons, would he do it?

If you’d asked him a couple of months ago, he would have said yes. As an assassin, he would do what needed to be done. But now he wasn’t so sure. Not when they’d become a second family to him, as important to him as the Children. He desperately hoped he wouldn’t have to make that impossible choice: Arda, or a Son. It made his heart twist painfully just to think about it; he vowed he would do whatever was in his power to make sure that ultimatum never came to pass.

He didn’t stay in Lake-town long, not wanting to risk it getting too late – it was in the evenings that the soldiers’ presence increased and they became even more dangerous, even more ruthless.

When he saw Thorin again that evening, he couldn’t help but remember the outright fear on the man’s face that morning when he’d found him in the living room. He didn’t want to dwell on it, but he couldn’t help but feel that there was something not right. There was something more to it than Thorin simply thinking he’d left, something Thorin was either unwilling or unable to tell him, and it made his skin prickle to think on it. He pushed the thought away, not wanting Thorin or the others to notice his preoccupation – it would only make them more worried.

Thorin told them of what Dís had said, about Sauron’s so-called “lieutenant”. He glanced at Bilbo as he told them about the speech that would take place in a few days, and Bilbo knew they’d be going.

That night he was woken by something, though when he opened his eyes he wasn’t entirely sure what; and then he heard it again: beside him, Thorin let out a pained moan, his eyes screwed shut. Bilbo immediately sat up and moved to light the lamp at the bedside; a sheen of sweat covered Thorin’s face and neck and he didn’t open his eyes at the sudden brightness. He was shifting under the covers, shaking his head and murmuring something, his voice desperate, pleading; Bilbo placed a gentle hand on his shoulder to wake him up.

“No!” Thorin was throwing him off, pushing him away as he sat up with a start, his breathing heavy. Bilbo had frozen with shock but Thorin looked so lost in the moments before he fully woke up that Bilbo’s heart seemed to twist in pain.

“Thorin,” he whispered and Thorin’s eyes flickered to him; there was something in them, something Bilbo couldn’t name. “It’s just me, it’s Bilbo,” he said, his voice gentle; Thorin’s expression morphed into one of torment and he reached for Bilbo as Bilbo leant forward, pulling Thorin close to him, the Son’s head resting against his heartbeat. “You’re alright, Thorin, it was just another nightmare.”

Thorin fisted his hands in Bilbo’s shirt, his breathing uneven and shaky. Bilbo held him close, his own eyes tearing up as Thorin seemed to sob, his back shuddering and hands trembling even as they held on to him for dear life, as if Thorin was a drowning man and Bilbo was the only thing keeping him afloat.

“They’re getting worse,” Thorin whispered, his voice hoarse. “Every night, I see it, I can’t stop it–”

“They’re only dreams, Thorin,” Bilbo said soothingly, fighting the rising urge in him to cry at seeing Thorin, his Thorin, who was stone and strength and quiet surety, so undone by the shadows in his mind. “Dreams can’t hurt you. They’re not real.” He pressed his lips to Thorin’s hair, the soft strands damp beneath his lips.

Thorin pulled away from him, though kept his fists clenched in the white fabric of Bilbo’s shirt. “They feel so real,” he said and Bilbo could hear the note of fear still in his voice. “They feel _so_ real and I can’t do anything to stop them–”

Bilbo brought his hand up to Thorin’s chin and guided him to look at him, forcing him to meet his eye. He gently stroked his thumb across Thorin’s tear-stained cheek. “What do you dream of? If you can tell me, it’ll make them less real. It’s just your mind playing tricks on you, Thorin, that’s all.” He knew well enough the pain that nightmares could cause though; the sleepless nights he’d been prey to the shadows in his own mind before Smaug – the way his mind had taunted him with images of Thorin but the curse of the Arkenstone had turned them all to dust before him – they had been overwhelming, exhausting. At least he could give Thorin comfort; back then, he’d believed their love something impossible.

Thorin closed his eyes for a moment before he looked back at Bilbo, his hands still fisted in the now-damp material of Bilbo’s shirt. “I dreamt of my brother,” he said eventually. “Of my father and my grandfather.” Bilbo pulled Thorin close enough that he could kiss his brow, kiss away the salty drops that gathered in the corners of his eyes. His poor Thorin, his _amazing_ Thorin, who had lost so much and yet still fought on, day after day – it was no wonder his past still haunted him. “Why are they coming back?” Thorin asked, looking at Bilbo as if he held all the answers. “Why can’t I forget them, forget what happened?”

Bilbo couldn’t answer that, just pulled Thorin close and held him, listening as the man’s breathing started to return to normal and his heart rate had calmed.

“I think,” he said after a while, his hand coming to rest at the base of Thorin’s throat, tracing the line of his collarbone, “I think the ghosts of our past never truly leave us.” He laid his palm flat against Thorin’s chest, above his heart, feeling the solid thudding of it. Unbidden, an image of Beregond flashed into his mind, Beregond the perfect, beautiful young man who Bilbo couldn’t ever truly forget, even if he couldn’t remember his face anymore. He looked away from Thorin, unable to hold the man’s gaze.

Thorin’s hand came to rest on top of his, catching it and holding it tightly.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question. Bilbo froze and looked up at Thorin in surprise. “Your friend. Beregond.”

Bilbo didn’t know what to say; he opened his mouth but no sound came out. “Yes,” he said eventually. “Yes, I am. He is my ghost, and I will be carrying him around with me for the rest of my life.”

Thorin didn’t say anything, but his eyes seemed to be saying something that he was unable to. Bilbo couldn’t decipher what it was though; Thorin looked down at their clasped hands. “You still love him.”

Bilbo turned cold and pulled his hand away, looking at Thorin in equal measures confusion and shock.

“Why would you say that?” he asked, his voice a near whisper. Thorin looked surprised at the vehemence of Bilbo’s reaction, but he didn’t back down. “Beregond has been _dead_ for fifteen years – what makes you think that I _love_ him–”

“I thought you were dead and it didn’t stop me loving you one jot,” Thorin retorted. “Death has nothing to do with it, Bilbo.”

“It – it _does,_ ” Bilbo spluttered. “I don’t love Beregond – maybe I did once upon a time, when I was young and foolish and he was everything I wanted to be – everything I’d never be – but I don’t love him still, Thorin!”

“Then why does he weigh so heavily on your mind?” Thorin asked, his voice becoming sharper and Bilbo felt a spike of anger. “Why do you still think of him softly?”

Bilbo spluttered, shaking his head at the _ridiculousness_ of this conversation. “Because I loved him and it’s _my_ fault he’s dead,” he said eventually, his voice a furious whisper. “Because I will _never_ be able to forget that I caused him to die, and if it hadn’t been for me he would still be here,” he continued, and he couldn’t stop his voice rising in volume. “Is that a good enough answer?”

Thorin had turned as still as marble and his jaw was set, expression stony. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. “It was Smaug, not you.”

“You don’t understand, Thorin,” Bilbo said hollowly, shaking his head. “You don’t understand.”

“Maybe I don’t,” Thorin said; his voice held a note of anger that made Bilbo pause. “Maybe you feel guilty because you would rather him than me. You hate that you love me, you hate that I’m not him–”

“Stop!” Bilbo cried out, and the flow of hateful, poisonous words pouring out of Thorin’s mouth ceased immediately. Bilbo scrambled out of the bed, away from Thorin. “You have _no_ idea what you’re saying,” he said, taking a deep breath that shook. He glared at the man in front of him, who stared right back, his blue eyes shuttered and barred. Fury was burning in Bilbo’s belly and he turned on his heel, heading for the door before he could say something he would regret later.

“Bilbo–”

He ignored Thorin behind him, his voice suddenly afraid, and pulled the door open with more force than was necessary. He headed to the room that had been his and shut it swiftly behind him, locking it for good measure; he leant his head back against the wood and breathed in a few great gulping breaths before sliding down to the floor, uncaring even of the cold stone.

How could Thorin say such things? Did he doubt Bilbo’s love for him so much he could _honestly_ believe that Bilbo would choose another man – a man who had died before he’d even _become_ a man – over him? Could he not see how deeply Bilbo loved him, so much that it hurt to even _think_ about losing him?

Could he not understand that yes, Bilbo held himself responsible for his best friend’s death and that that would never, ever go away?

He thought he heard Thorin standing on the other side of the door and immediately held his breath, not wanting Thorin to speak to him; there was the thud of something hitting the wood – Thorin dropping his head forward – and then his footsteps as he walked away and Bilbo’s heart seemed to be splintering inside of him.

He loved Thorin more than he thought it was possible to love someone, and Thorin still doubted him. But the Thorin of even a few short weeks ago, the Thorin who’d welcomed him back and kissed him so tenderly – that Thorin would never have dreamt of doubting him.

When had Bilbo’s word – his love – ceased to be enough?

 

*

 

He woke the next morning with eyes that were dry and itchy and a heavy heart. It took a few moments for him to place why he felt so thoroughly miserable, but then he remembered Thorin’s words and he buried his face in the covers, ignoring the dust that had gathered on them during his absence.

He’d been labouring under no illusions that it’d be _easy_ , that just because he loved Thorin with every fibre of his being their relationship wouldn’t have its own fair share of bumps and problems; he just hadn’t expected them to start so soon – and that their first stumbling block would be Thorin’s jealousy of Bilbo’s long-dead friend.

He lay like that for a while longer, not bothering to light a lamp and listening to the sounds of life from outside. He would put Thorin’s words down to stress, to the effects of the leftover fear from the nightmare. Bilbo knew that the shadows of one’s mind were a scary place, that they could make one disorientated and lost. Perhaps he’d overreacted – perhaps Thorin hadn’t been suggesting he was still in love with Beregond after all, he’d simply been trying to get validation of Bilbo’s feelings for him. Perhaps that was all it was.

Bilbo held onto that thought and the more he considered it the more he realised that _must_ have been it, that was all it had been; he ignored the way his stomach still felt as if there was a lead weight sitting in it. He forced himself to sit up and slipped back to Thorin’s room, managing to avoid bumping into any Sons in the corridor and any awkward questions that might lead to.

But Thorin wasn’t in his room when Bilbo shut the door behind himself, which made his stomach drop for a moment and he felt the smile slip from his face. He shook his head and got dressed before joining the Sons for breakfast. Thorin wasn’t there either, and he tried not to let his worry show on his face. He couldn’t eat much though, which made the others look at each other in concern; instead he sat chewing at his lip, staring at the empty seat where Thorin usually sat and wondering where he was.

“Are you alright, Bilbo?” Bofur asked him and Bilbo started when he heard his name.

“What? Oh. Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he said, pulling at his lip thoughtfully.

“He went to see Dís,” Balin said as if reading Bilbo’s mind. “He left early this morning. Said he didn’t want to wake you.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said, feeling the knot of worry in his stomach loosen an inch. “Well. That’s alright.” He reached for another bread roll and chewed on it, his thoughts still wandering to Thorin and wondering when he’d be back. He wanted to apologise, to kiss him soundly so that he could have no reason to doubt him ever again.

Thorin was back later that evening and he looked at Bilbo warily as he approached; Bilbo pulled him into Thorin’s room and hugged him. When he looked up Thorin looked confused.

“I’m sorry for over-reacting,” Bilbo mumbled. “I’m sorry. I love you, Thorin – Lady, I love you–”

Thorin pressed his lips to his and held him close. “I’m the one who should be sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I shouldn’t have said what I did, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” His hands were running along Bilbo’s body, firm and reassuring and Bilbo fisted his hands in Thorin’s hair so that he could bring his face down to meet his, kissing him again.

It was only a misunderstanding. That was all.

Thorin had another nightmare that night; this time Bilbo didn’t wake him, just held him closer and hoped his comfort would reach him in the depths of whatever hell his mind was putting him through.

It was only then that Bilbo remembered what he’d said when he’d first woken up: _every night, I see it, I can’t stop it–_

What did he see? What was ‘it’? What terrified him so much it made him lash out in fear; what could his mind possibly inflict on him that it reduced him to tears only Bilbo could stop?

The weight in his stomach seemed to grow heavier, one thing springing to mind – there was only one thing Bilbo had known which could induce such fear in Thorin. The same thing Thorin had hoped to keep a secret, that he’d hoped to bury away inside of himself and never let out again. What if that thing was finally surfacing, rearing its head?

What if it was Bilbo’s fault?

He closed his eyes and held onto Thorin’s quivering form in the darkness of their chamber, wishing fervently that this could all just be over.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered in Thorin’s unhearing ear as he shook his head at whatever his nightmare was throwing at him. “I’m so sorry.” He stroked Thorin’s hair through the tremors that were wracking his body; when Thorin finally woke with a gasp Bilbo pretended to be asleep but burrowed closer to Thorin, holding onto him so tightly he was afraid he was cutting off Thorin’s air, but the other man only held him tighter. Gradually, Bilbo felt Thorin’s heartbeat calm and his breathing return to normal.

Bilbo felt a drop of salty wetness fall into his hair from where Thorin had buried his face in Bilbo’s curls.

All too soon it was the day the Templars had said Sauron would be making his speech – or rather, his Lieutenant would.

Bilbo wondered why Sauron, the Knight Commander Templar – the most powerful man across all the kingdoms – would hide behind someone else. Someone unknown, whose only name was the _Lieutenant_. It filled him with a strange sense of foreboding, but he pushed it to one side; he didn’t ignore it completely, knowing that his unease was a good thing rather than being complacent, but he didn’t let it cloud his judgement either.

It was busy in the streets after Thorin and Bilbo surfaced near the Citadel – the whole city seemed to be there, coming to watch as this person who had taken over their city, who had caused so much suffering in so short a space of time, came to speak to them. Bilbo shared their curiosity – what would he say? What _could_ he say? And most importantly, how would the people react?

In his blue cloak, Thorin was stoic and still beside him, his solid presence a comfort to Bilbo in the shifting crowd. Above, crows were circling in the sky which was a dull grey – the clouds were low, heavy with rain; soon the autumn rains would start. Bilbo listened to their cawing and felt his stomach twist with nerves, though he didn’t know why.

No-one seemed to really know what was happening, though they all seemed happy to wait until it did happen; and so Bilbo and Thorin waited patiently too, feeling the nervous thrumming of the crowd and their curiosity.

After an hour or so ripples of excitement started to make their way through the masses of people, flurries of pointing and exclamations; something was happening. Thorin and Bilbo carefully pushed their way a little further forward, careful not to draw attention to themselves. They had no doubt there were guards around the area, and it wouldn’t do to bring them or an angry horde down upon them.

Then they saw it: a carriage of black so dark it seemed to suck in the light that touched it, and there emblazoned on the doors was an eye in fiery orange, the pupil thin and cat-like. Sauron’s emblem; the man currently hunting them was perhaps sat there, just behind those doors. The carriage was making its way down the street of the Citadel towards the gate where the Citadel met Dale. Bilbo held his breath as the carriage stopped and a group of soldiers in black armour stepped forward to flank the figure that stepped out, hiding it from view as it moved to the gatehouse and climbed up to the balcony that ran along the top of the wall.

The figure was tall, thin; they wore a black cloak with a hood that kept their face in shadow. They stood there, the soldiers still flanking him – too many to make it worth trying anything. The figure stood there, face still obscured by the hood, until the crowd’s muttering had stopped and there was utter silence, the only sound the crows still wheeling and cawing in the sky. When it was clear that the crowd was waiting, ready to listen, the figure slowly reached up and pulled down the hood, revealing a head of chestnut hair, eyes that were startlingly blue and–

A face that was strangely pale, mottled white with scarring. Whoever the figure was, he looked like a ghost, something unnatural, supernatural – that face was unnervingly still, the eyes all the more piercing for the paleness of the face. Bilbo couldn’t help but feel as though he knew those eyes; the knot of foreboding in his stomach seemed to tighten.

And then the figure spoke and all the breath seemed to leave Bilbo’s body in a rush, his knees nearly giving out and only his grip on Thorin’s arm kept him upright.

“Greetings, citizens of Arda.”

_‘Who are you? Why are you hiding over here?’_

“I come on behalf of my Master Sauron, your new Lord Templar, as his Lieutenant.”

_‘You can join us, if you like. Come on, it’ll be fun!’_

“He wishes me to thank you for such a _pleasant_ welcome to your fair city…”

_‘This is my brother. One day we’re going to fight Templars together!’_

“...Too long has Arda been left to rot, its slums allowed to grow and rebellion fester at its heart like a tumour. Sauron has come to bring you hope, to bring you peace from the chaos. He has come to build a new Arda.”

_‘Come on! Let me show you my secret hideout! You’re the only other person who knows about it.’_

“Together, you and I and Sauron will rebuild Arda, build her anew, free from the phantoms and the rebels that haunt her now. You know of them, good people. Those cloaked demons who roam your streets seeking blood.”

_‘We’re friends now. We stick together.’_

“You know them as the Sons of Durin. Sauron has vowed to put an end to their reign of terror and bloodshed – no more will you have to fear the shadows at night. Join us in this new Arda, _our_ new Arda–”

_‘Come on, let’s go to Lake-town. You always said you wanted to see the boats.’_

“Join us and thrive in our new city, or resist and perish with your old one.”

_‘Bilbo, wait for me – wait–”_

Bilbo hadn’t heard that voice in fifteen years; the last time he’d heard it had been crying his name fearfully, calling out for him to wait, to wait for him but then when Bilbo had turned he’d gone, he wasn’t there, there was only burning wood and fire, flames licking at his skin and burning him–

_How was Bilbo hearing Beregond’s voice from the man up on the gate?_

He couldn’t breathe, his lungs seemed to have forgotten how to work but he couldn’t leave, couldn’t move without drawing attention to himself or worse, to Thorin; he forced his legs not to buckle, gulping in air in great gasps as Thorin gripped his hand tightly, keeping his mind focussed on anything except the terrible tightness of his lungs, of his chest and his throat and the watering of his eyes.

The crowd began to roar at the man’s words and fear began to rise up in Bilbo like bile. Could these people not see that the Sons had been _protecting_ them, _preventing_ the bloodshed of innocents as much as they could? Were they so blind they would believe the words of a stranger?

The Lieutenant looked out across the sea of faces with his strangely piercing blue eyes and Bilbo’s heart seemed to quail in his chest, but those eyes moved on without stopping on him and then the man pulled up his hood and descended, climbing back into that black carriage; as it drove away the crowds of people began to disperse and Bilbo and Thorin slipped away as fast as possible, Bilbo’s legs trembling with the effort of not giving out beneath him.

As soon as they reached the safety of the underground tunnels Bilbo couldn’t hold on anymore and he collapsed against the wall, great breaths tearing out of him as he fought for breath, feeling it claw at his throat as he tried to force his lungs to remember how to work. Thorin held him up, his blue eyes so full of concern but Bilbo couldn’t bear to meet them, couldn’t bear to think of another pair of eyes that colour–

He could feel his eyes prickling and to his shame knew he wouldn’t be able to stop the tears from coming. Thorin seemed at a loss, uncertain of what Bilbo needed him to do; at that moment in time Bilbo wasn’t sure himself. He almost couldn’t bear to even look at him, something sitting heavy in his stomach and making him nauseous.

He’d told Thorin that night that Beregond was his ghost, the ghost he’d carry with him forever.

He hadn’t thought Beregond was a _living_ ghost, that he’d come back to haunt him in the worst way possible.

“It was him,” he eventually said, forcing the words out. “It was him.”

“The Lieutenant?” Thorin asked, his hands gripping Bilbo’s forearms. Bilbo nodded.

“Beregond.” The word came out as hardly more than a whisper and Bilbo couldn’t meet Thorin’s eye as he said it. “It was Beregond.”

Thorin released him, taking a step back. “No.”

“I – I’d know that voice anywhere,” Bilbo said, feeling hollow. Once upon a time he’d have followed that voice come hell or high water – or in their case, fire.

“How can this be?” Thorin asked and Bilbo shook his head, still in shock. He felt numb all over. It hadn’t _looked_ like Beregond – that scarred, pale face had held nothing of the noble and handsome young man Bilbo had last seen fifteen years ago; it was only the eyes and that voice that Bilbo couldn’t pretend not to recognise.

He felt the tears come then, burning his eyes as they came; blindly he reached for Thorin, seeking the comfort only the other man could give him. But Thorin’s arms were stiff as they held him, his touch clinical, distant.

Sensing Thorin’s discomfort Bilbo pulled himself together, forcing himself back to his own two feet and ignoring the prickling of his eyes as he looked up and met Thorin’s gaze; deep in Thorin’s blue eyes was something pained, something burning low and fierce. Feeling empty, Bilbo turned away from Thorin and headed back to Rohan, waiting to hear the other man’s footsteps follow and ignoring the way his heart felt as if it was tearing itself in two.

 

***

 

If Thorin had ever needed proof of his cowardice, he finally had it.

So threatened by a ghost from Bilbo’s past come back to haunt him that Thorin couldn’t even bring himself to give him the comfort he sought. What sort of a man did that make him? What sort of failure of a lover?

But he couldn’t ignore the hot claws of jealousy that seemed to be squeezing at his lungs, no matter how many times he told himself he was being foolish. He _was_ being a fool, a weak-hearted craven, but he couldn’t deny his thoughts any more than he could _not_ think them.

He saw the pain as Bilbo turned from him and started walking away, which made his throat close for a moment before he forced himself to follow, wanting to reach out to Bilbo and apologise, to hold him close and reassure him as Bilbo so wanted – _needed_ – him to do; but his voice didn’t work and his limbs refused to obey that simple command so he swallowed his pride, his damned pride, and simply followed Bilbo back to the hideout in Rohan. He didn’t protest when Bilbo locked himself in his old room; instead he forced himself to put his feelings aside and answer the questions about what had been said in the speech. He left out that it was _him_ , that it was _Beregond_ – if he even so much as thought the name he felt those hot claws again.

“He’s turning the people against us,” he said wearily to the Sons gathered in front of him. “Playing on their fears. Blaming us for the chaos, for the deaths.” _The cloaked demons who prowl the streets looking for bloodshed._ “It’s even more dangerous for us up there now.”

The Sons seemed confused, scared by this news but Thorin didn’t want – was too distracted – to listen to all their questions, their worried conjectures and tentative suggestions. There was only one question that broke him from his distraction, cutting sharply into his thoughts.

“Did something happen to Bilbo?” Bofur asked and Thorin’s gaze snapped to him, sudden inexplicable waves of something hot rushing through him at the sight of the toy maker and his worried brown eyes. “He didn’t seem himself when he got back.”

“He was taken ill on the way here,” Thorin said shortly. “He will be fine soon.”

“Does he need some herbs?” Óin piped up. “Or some broth? I could take him some if he’s ill–”

“He is fine,” Thorin said through gritted teeth; he realised his fists were clenched and he loosened them immediately, hoping no-one had noticed. He couldn’t bear the thought of Bilbo seeing anyone else. “He just needs to rest.”

Balin was looking at him strangely, a frown on his brow and something in his eyes that made Thorin distinctly uncomfortable, as if Balin knew exactly what he was thinking and feeling. He turned on his heel and made his way to his own chamber, locking it behind him; it took a moment to calm his frenzied breathing.

Perhaps he should be looking closer to home, perhaps it was _Bofur_ he should be worried about – he and Bilbo had been friends before Thorin could even have a civil conversation with the Child–

 _No._ He couldn’t think like this, _wouldn’t_ think like this.

Bilbo had told him he loved him, had told him so many times, and _shown_ him. Why was that not enough for him?

But still he couldn’t shake the feeling that dogged him even as he re-joined the Sons and tried to exist normally; the heavy weight of suspicion and the phantom hands that just waited, ready to pounce and squeeze the breath from his lungs.

When Bilbo eventually ventured out from his chamber looking pale and drawn, Thorin ignored the hot rush that ran through him; swallowed the sudden bitterness in his mouth. Bilbo didn’t look at him – at least not until the others asked him if he was feeling alright, their faces all concern.

“Thorin didn’t – you didn’t tell them?” he demanded of Thorin, a flash of irritation on his face that echoed in Thorin’s belly.

“I didn’t feel it was my place to say,” Thorin said coldly and Bilbo just gave him a long look, his eyes searching Thorin’s; Thorin looked away first.

Bilbo explained about _Beregond_ to the others, his voice trembling as he spoke his name, and Thorin left the room. He didn’t want to think about it.

But by the time evening rolled around he couldn’t deny the pained squeezing of his heart at how he hadn’t spoken to Bilbo again – how he’d abandoned Bilbo when he was _hurting,_ when he _needed_ him, so he sought him out as he sat in his old chamber, staring into the fire. He glanced at Thorin for only a second before going back to gazing at the fire.

Thorin’s heart was thudding painfully as he moved to kneel before Bilbo, whose eyes widened momentarily with surprise before he looked away back at the fire. Thorin’s throat closed at that but he ignored it, instead reaching for one of Bilbo’s hands and clasping it tightly in both of his.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, suddenly unable to look Bilbo in the eye so he looked down instead, his eyes focussing on the folds of Bilbo’s white cloak. “I’m so sorry for abandoning you, Bilbo. I was a fool and a coward.” Bilbo seemed to sigh, but didn’t say anything. His hand was absolutely still in Thorin’s and so cold; it was like holding stone. “I have no right to ask you to forgive me but I don’t think I can go on without your forgiveness,” he said then, and he knew it was true. Nothing else mattered but that Bilbo forgave him.

Bilbo’s other hand came up to lift his chin then so that Thorin was looking at him; he looked at Thorin for a long moment and Thorin forced himself not to look away this time. Without saying anything Bilbo pulled Thorin up and wrapped his arm around him; Thorin pulled him close and pressed his face to the crook of Bilbo’s neck, breathing in the scent of him.

 _Mine, mine, mine,_ each thud of his heart seemed to say. _Not Beregond’s, not Bofur’s, mine mine mine–_

Bilbo released him then and let himself be guided back to Thorin’s room, let Thorin stroke his hair and press kisses to his skin, worshipping him with his body as he couldn’t bring his voice to do. Thorin peppered him with kisses, not leaving an inch unloved, and he couldn’t keep the wave of protectiveness from washing over him in a hot rush.

“Mine,” he whispered, breath ghosting over Bilbo’s skin.

Bilbo reached down then and pulled Thorin up to him, hiding his face against Thorin’s chest as Thorin carded his fingers through those golden curls until they fell asleep. But even that wasn’t enough to fend off the nightmare of the Arkenstone – though he was having them so often it was almost just a dream more than a nightmare now – and once again he woke up, trembling and his shirt soaked through with cold sweat. Beside him Bilbo slept on peacefully, untroubled.

Thorin forced his breathing to slow and simply held Bilbo close until the dawn, the long hours cold and silent with only the sound of Bilbo’s gentle breathing to keep him company.

Bilbo was still quiet over the next couple of days, still reserved in his touches and he never seemed to be able to look at Thorin in the eye – or if he did, there was something in his gaze – something questioning – that meant Thorin was the first to look away. But Thorin forced himself not to shy away, to not let the hands squeeze at him too tightly, whenever Beregond was mentioned. There was still a tightness to Bilbo’s expression whenever he was mentioned – whenever they asked _how, how was it possible_ – but he didn’t let on whatever it was he was feeling.

Thorin still caught him looking at him with a strange look on his face, but whenever he realised Thorin had caught him looking his face went strangely blank before being replaced with a small smile. He didn’t shy from Thorin’s touches but neither did he initiate anything, preferring to simply be held and Thorin was more than happy to comply. He still felt awe that Bilbo was _his,_ that Bilbo was his alone and that Thorin was the one who was allowed to hold him at night. The feel of Bilbo’s soft body in his arms made him feel so many things he couldn’t even name it all. There was love in there, a thread of softness amongst the tangled tapestry of his emotions; there was hope, burning bright; there was something hot and fierce that hid itself behind the other things he was feeling, weaving its colour and heat into him deeply but never quite showing its face.

Above them, the city was preparing for the winter, the autumn days growing ever shorter and the winds ever more bitter. They would soon have to keep the fires burning permanently, it was that cold in the stone passages; as they lay beneath the covers in Thorin’s bed, huddled close for warmth, Bilbo bemoaned the comfort of his smial back in the Shire and Thorin felt his throat close up for a moment.

“I made you a promise,” he said. “I won’t force you to stay, Bilbo.”

Bilbo let out a sigh. “And I made _you_ a promise,” he said softly. “I said my place was at your side.” They were silent for a moment.

“You know I love you, don’t you?” Thorin asked suddenly, needing to know that Bilbo understood just how _desperately_ Thorin loved him, needed him.

“You may have mentioned something like that, yes,” Bilbo said and Thorin could hear the smile in his voice. But he needed Bilbo to be serious for a moment and he twined his fingers with Bilbo’s, holding on tightly as if Bilbo was the only thing anchoring him to this moment. Sometimes it truly felt that way.

“I mean it,” he said. “If you left I think I would die.”

“Don’t say things like that, Thorin,” Bilbo said and his voice was suddenly sharp. “You mustn’t say that.”

“But it’s true.”

“Thorin, you know anything could happen. I might die, you might die. I can’t promise not to ever leave you, just as you can’t promise the same to me.”

Thorin didn’t reply, and they lay in the darkness in silence. Thorin couldn’t stop Bilbo’s words from rattling around inside his brain noisily, repetitively, making him grit his teeth against them. _I can’t promise not to leave you. Can’t promise. Leave you._ He knew they might not even survive Sauron, and yet he couldn’t help but think about what might come after – Bilbo going home to his nephew in the Shire, leaving Thorin in Arda. For just the tiniest moment, he thought he’d almost rather hide like this with Bilbo by his side than live freely but alone.

He pushed the thought away as soon as it crossed his mind.

Suddenly Bilbo spoke again.

“How did Smaug copy my writing?” he asked and Thorin froze at the mention of the man’s name. “How did he get hold of my letters, Lobelia’s letters?”

“I don’t know.”

Bilbo sighed. “I can’t stop thinking about it. Every day I ask myself and I still don’t have an answer. There’s so much I don’t understand, Thorin – the letters, Beregond... It scares me.”

Thorin pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s pointed ear beneath his curls. “We will find out,” he said, doing his best to sound certain. “We will.” At least now he understood why Bilbo’s cousins had been killed; he’d been punishing Bilbo for disobeying him – as if Bilbo had been his to command. It made Thorin curl his lip and pull Bilbo tighter as they fell asleep, and for once he didn’t dream of the Arkenstone.

The next day Nori came to the hideout, his face looking pinched. He nodded at Thorin as he approached.

“News,” he said and Thorin’s gaze sharpened.

“What’s happened?”

“Last night… I saw it, Bombur saw it… People were murdered in the streets.”

Thorin frowned. “That’s not unusual, Nori, not in times like this.”

Nori shook his head. “No, no, it’s more than that. They… the murderers wore cloaks. Black hooded cloaks – they looked like _us,_ Thorin. I thought for a moment it could have been one of you, it was that real. They’re scaring the people and turning them against us, framing us for things we’ve not done – just as you said.”

Thorin felt nausea rise in him. Innocent people, murdered – and people would think it was _their_ doing.

He couldn’t stop the whisper that fell from his lips. “By the Stone…”

The other Sons were looking troubled and Balin looked sorrowful. The good name of the Sons of Durin, who’d only ever wanted peace and fought against the evil and corruption that had ruled the city… now they were the villains, the ones to be eradicated and wiped out. Sauron was willing to kill innocents in his desire to see Thorin and his kin dead.

Thorin was more determined than ever not to be beaten.

“Tell Dís to keep her girls inside after dark,” he said to Nori then. “And herself.” He wouldn’t have the deaths of them on his conscience; bad enough that he had these innocents’ deaths on his hands.

Nori nodded once, and turned, but his face was still drawn, a haunted look in his eyes.

“Is everything alright, Nori?” Bilbo asked him and Nori’s eyes flickered to him and he swallowed.

“Just fine,” he said.

“Nori,” Bilbo said and the Thief shook his head and hurried away. Bilbo frowned after him and Thorin took his hand, the warmth of it soothing his aching heart, a balm against the splinters of icy fear embedding themselves there.

Bilbo was watching Nori’s retreating back. “There’s something he’s not telling us,” he said, frown creasing his brow.

“He’s just worried,” Thorin said, placing a hand on the small of Bilbo’s back. “That’s all.”

Bilbo didn’t look convinced but he allowed Thorin’s hand to guide him away, his frown still in place.

 

***

 

He couldn’t place what it was exactly, but there was something about Thorin...something that made his stomach twist uncomfortably, and not in a good way. Where before the goose-bumps his hot trailing fingers had left on Bilbo’s skin when they caressed him had left him shivery with desire, now his skin prickled with something uncomfortable and afraid.

Where his hugs and his touches had made Bilbo’s heart swell with happiness and love, now they made his heart rise and catch in his throat.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love Thorin – the opposite. He still loved Thorin with every inch of his being; he loved him so much and it was _because_ of that he was fearful. He couldn’t place why or what had changed, only that it had and he couldn’t deny his body’s reactions. Bilbo had always trusted his gut, and he wasn’t going to stop now even though he desperately wanted to – what did he have to be afraid of from Thorin? Thorin loved him. He told him so.

It had scared him to hear Thorin voice his love like that – _if you left I think I would die._ He shouldn’t think that, shouldn’t feel like that. It had left his heart battering against his ribs and an uncomfortable weight in his stomach. And if Thorin loved him so, why could he not bear to hear Beregond’s name spoken – as if he truly doubted that Bilbo loved him, as if he thought Bilbo would choose _him_ over Thorin?

It hurt more than he would admit, even to himself, to have Thorin doubt his loyalty and his feelings for him; it broke his heart that Thorin saw shadows where there were none.

The night after Nori had come to tell them his news Bilbo had woken, Thorin’s hand curled loosely around his wrist, and suddenly Bilbo had felt stifled, claustrophobic in the darkness; he carefully lifted Thorin’s hand away from his, being careful not to wake him when he looked so peaceful for once – he hadn’t looked so untroubled in his sleep in a long while – and pulled on his cloak and boots. It was too cold without them. He headed up outside to the hill behind the Meduseld, needing the see the sky again, feel the wind.

The vaulted ceiling of the star-speckled sky above him was vast, stretching on forever, and Bilbo breathed in the cold night air as he settled into the grass. It smelt a bit too much like horse to be the Shire, but the sky was the same one that looked down on the little green hills of home; he wondered if Frodo had looked at the same stars earlier that night before he went to bed. He wondered if Lobelia had.

He missed them with a physical pain, but he couldn’t go back, not yet. Not until this was over and he knew he could go back for good. He didn’t let himself think about how Thorin would fit into those plans; he’d think about that when the time came, and no sooner.

He leaned back against the cool ground, listening to the sounds from the city – still the same old Arda, despite what – what _Beregond_ had said. Arda would never truly change – its people were set in their ways. Though that didn’t mean they were immune to scaremongering and threats – Nori’s news had proved that, at least. He closed his eyes as the wind ruffled his hair, wishing he could preserve this moment forever – if he could stop time right now, this moment of perfect clarity with the icy cold light of the stars on his skin and the breeze that tugged at his cloak. Bilbo let out a sigh, feeling his breath come easily for perhaps the first time in a long while.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay out there – it couldn’t have been more than an hour, but it was long enough that the cold had started to seep into his bones. He was reluctant to move just yet, however; once he moved he’d have to face reality again, face up to the demons and the shadows that plagued them.

Suddenly he heard a noise behind him and he sat up with a jolt, his hand reaching for his knife as he turned, ready to strike back–

“Bilbo!” It was Thorin. Bilbo let his hand fall from his knife, relief rushing through him that it was only Thorin and not something more nefarious.

“Thorin,” he said as the Son approached.

“What are you _doing?”_ Thorin’s voice was angry, hot fury burning and Bilbo saw his eyes were wild with it; his throat closed up and he scrambled to his feet, Thorin coming to a stop before him.

“I needed air,” he said, feeling defensive though he knew he’d done nothing wrong.

“What were you thinking?” Thorin asked and he reached to grab Bilbo’s wrist but Bilbo pulled away from his grasp. Thorin looked at him and Bilbo saw it wasn’t just anger in his eyes – there was fear. “You heard what Nori said,” he hissed, reaching for Bilbo again and this time his grip was tight, unyielding. “It’s not safe to be out here. Not when it’s dark.”

“Thorin, let _go_ ,” Bilbo said, trying to shake Thorin off but he wasn’t having it; he only held on tighter. He started to pull Bilbo back towards the warehouse and the tunnel, but Bilbo planted his feet and pulled his arm back, making Thorin pause and turn and look at him. “Let go of me,” he said coolly, not revealing the way his heart was pounding uncomfortably fast in his chest.

Thorin’s eyes were still burning brightly with something fevered, something hot, but there was confusion in them too. “You have to come back inside,” he said. “It’s not safe.”

Bilbo shook his head and again tried to pry his wrist from Thorin’s grip, but to no avail. “No, Thorin. I’m not in danger right now, I promise.”

Thorin’s face morphed into one of worry and his grip tightened just a moment before relaxing enough for Bilbo to pull his hand free. “Why won’t you come back with me?” Thorin pleaded, his voice suddenly so fearful it made Bilbo pause. “Please, Bilbo, come back inside where it’s safe.”

“I–”

“I thought you’d gone,” Thorin whispered, his voice breaking. “You weren’t there and I was so afraid–” Bilbo remembered how terrified he’d been that time before when he’d found him in the living room; for Thorin to have woken up and Bilbo had been nowhere–

“I’m here,” Bilbo said then, softly, stepping closer to Thorin and letting the man reach for his hands, bringing them up to his lips and holding them to his cheek. Bilbo could see moisture in Thorin’s eyes, though it hadn’t escaped yet. “I’m here, Thorin.”

“I can’t let them take you,” Thorin murmured. “I won’t let them take you from me.”

“No-one is taking me anywhere,” Bilbo said, a hint of confusion colouring his voice.

Thorin looked up at him again and there was such agony in his eyes that Bilbo couldn’t bear to look; he pulled Thorin close so he didn’t have to see that pain and fear. He swallowed thickly as Thorin’s shoulders quivered in the cold night air, only the stars bearing witness to the way his skin prickled as Thorin held him. The knot in his stomach tightened when he heard Thorin whispering to himself between his choked-in breaths.

‘ _My Bilbo. Mine. By my life, I will not lose you.’_

He ignored the icy finger of dread that clutched at him, crawling down his spine and making his blood run cold.

It was nothing. It meant nothing.

Nothing at all.

 

*

 

It was too dangerous for the Sons to venture out into the streets since the attacks that had been made to look like their work, so it was Bilbo who took on the task of collecting messages, much to Thorin’s displeasure. But Bilbo was grateful for the task, it taking him out of the stuffy cold tunnels and into the open air, away from those same old walls. Away from Thorin.

He felt guilty for even thinking it, but he couldn’t deny that the sick weight in his stomach grew heavier with each day, with each time he saw Thorin’s gaze directed on him and his eyes filled with something unidentifiable, with each seemingly unthinking touch to Bilbo’s skin – his shoulder, his arm – that felt almost like a reminder of _possession_ rather than affection. Bilbo had been talking to Bofur only that morning when he’d felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and eyes boring into his back; he’d turned to find Thorin staring at him with a strange expression on his face. When he’d noticed Bilbo looking he’d abruptly turned away, but not before shooting Bofur an unreadable look. Bofur had been just as confused as Bilbo.

Bilbo breathed in the air – it was hardly fresh, here in the centre of the city, but it was better than the stale musty air of the tunnels – and enjoyed his relative solitude. He was surrounded by people all going about their business but he was invisible, blending in so that people’s eyes simply travelled over him, and he felt free. He almost didn’t want to go back to Rohan.

He decided to go and see Beorn – it would delay his return to Rohan and he hadn’t seen him since before Smaug’s death. In that moment Bilbo wanted nothing more than to sit in Beorn’s over-large chairs, old Bear’s head in his lap and drooling on his cloak while Beorn made them tea.

Of course Beorn wasn’t expecting Bilbo of all people to turn up on his doorstep – it looked like the Sons had remembered to tell him of Bilbo’s fate after all. He was suspicious of Bilbo at first but let him in, demanding an explanation. When Bilbo was done he was suddenly swept up into Beorn’s massive arms for a hug and Bilbo almost started crying it was so comforting, and he had to swallow several times to get rid of the lump in his throat.

“The Sons should be thankful they’re hidden so well,” Beorn said gruffly when he finally released Bilbo. “I searched for them after I got their note – they told me you’d died in a _note –_ the cowards couldn’t even pay me a visit in person,” Beorn muttered.

“From what I can tell you’re lucky you got even that,” Bilbo said, doing his best to sound cheerful as he sat down in one of Beorn’s chairs.

“Well,” Beorn said as Bear padded into the room and headed straight for Bilbo, who greeted him enthusiastically, rubbing his neck and cooing. “As I say, they’re lucky I didn’t find them.”

“Beorn,” Bilbo chided. “It wasn’t their fault .”

“So it was yours?” Beorn demanded, his gruff face stormy. Bilbo shrugged, scratching at Bear’s neck.

“I suppose,” he said quietly. Beorn made a noise and went to make them some tea, coming back a couple of minutes later with a tray of tea and cakes and another dog at his side. Bilbo smiled as she bounded to him, immediately putting her paws on his knees and sniffing his face, giving him enthusiastic kisses which made him laugh. She was nearly taller than him when she stood like this. “Did you miss me, lovely girl?” he chuckled, fending off her eager affections.

“I’ve told you before, her name is Claw ,” Beorn said, sounding mildly disapproving. He approached and shooed Claw back to all four paws on the floor before handing Bilbo his cup of tea. Bilbo rolled his eyes.

“And I’ve told you before, no-one calls their dog _Claw_ ,” Bilbo said, smiling at Beorn’s disgruntled expression.

It was so easy and familiar and Bilbo forgot all about Thorin and Sauron and the danger they were all in, instead laughing with Beorn and lavishing attention on his two overgrown puppies. Huge and fierce-looking though they both were, Bear and Claw were the sweetest souls.

He only remembered the rest of the world when he happened to glance out of the window and saw it was nearly dark; his face fell and his heart squeezed tightly in his chest.

“I should go,” he said, standing.

“Stay,” Beorn said. “It’s dangerous in the dark now. Stay the night.” Bilbo wanted nothing more than to stay, to feast on Beorn’s cooking and then fresh cream and honey from his bees, but he knew Thorin would be unhappy.

“I can’t,” he said, trying to hide his disappointment. “The others will worry.”

Beorn looked at him, his gaze piercing, and Bilbo looked away.

“Why does that trouble you so much?” he asked.

Bilbo fiddled with the sleeve of his cloak. “Because it’s dangerous now,” he shrugged. “They’ll think the worst if I don’t come back.”

Beorn made a humming noise, and then asked the question Bilbo hadn’t realised he’d been dreading.

“How are things with Thorin?”

Bilbo smiled – or tried to, it felt a little wobbly on his face – before he answered. “Just fine,” he said, nodding and flapping his arms at his sides. “Really, it’s fine.”

“You’re lovers now, aren’t you.” There was no question in his statement and Bilbo felt himself flushing as he nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak. “How is he treating you?”

“He treats me fine, Beorn,” Bilbo said, his voice coming out a little sharper than he’d meant. “I mean, _well_. He treats me well. He loves me.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me, Bilbo.” For all that Bilbo normally had a glib tongue – had managed to lie to Smaug for so long – his silver tongue was failing him now. Perhaps it was to do with the painful twisting of his heart. Beorn stood up and stopped in front of him, his huge hand coming and lifting Bilbo’s chin so gently it made tears prick at Bilbo’s eyes; suddenly his chin was trembling and he sucked in a great gulping breath.

“There’s something happening to him,” he admitted, the warmth of Beorn’s eyes and the concern on his face making Bilbo’s heart stutter. “He keeps having these nightmares and I can’t stop them, and he – he – sometimes it scares me how much he needs me,” Bilbo admitted, the words tumbling out of him in a rush. It felt so good to be saying them out loud, putting his fears into words, as if by speaking them he was letting them go. “It’s like he’s afraid of shadows when I’m not there and it’s breaking him, Beorn, the nightmares and Sauron – he’s breaking before my eyes and I can’t stop it, I can’t stop it–”

Beorn pulled him close and Bilbo gasped against Beorn’s hard chest, the tears finally squeezing out of his eyelids in a hot rush. When his breathing had calmed Beorn held him at arm’s length, his eyes serious as they looked at him.

“I know you love him, but sometimes you can’t save someone just by loving them,” Beorn said and Bilbo felt his throat close for a minute as he swallowed down more tears. “You promise me you’ll look after yourself first, Bilbo – promise me.”

Bilbo nodded, taking in a deep breath. Beorn was right.

Eventually he’d calmed down enough to leave, and he gave Beorn a long hug as he said goodbye.

“Stay safe,” he said to the huge man, flanked by his two dogs. Beorn smiled at his words.

“Follow your own advice,” he said as Bilbo stepped out into the night. “I expect to see you again soon.”

Bilbo smiled and turned, slipping into the shadows. It was a relatively uneventful journey back, dodging passers-by and the occasional group of guards who still patrolled the streets – though now their attacks had stopped. He was nearly in Rohan when he suddenly froze as a scream rent the air from a couple of streets away.

Immediately he ran to the source of the noise. There in the street, lay the bodies of two young women and a third being held in the clutches of a man with his face hidden in the shadow of his black hooded cloak. It was the murderers Nori and Bombur had seen.

Bilbo felt inordinate rage and without hesitation he reached for his crossbow, but before he had time to fire it he felt a rush of wind at his back and he turned just in time to avoid being impaled on a knife, instead the blade just grazing his knuckles as he twisted. His would-be attacker, another man in a cloak, didn’t even have time to note his failure before the bolt embedded itself in his neck, blood spurting out and landing in hot droplets on Bilbo’s cloak.

Bilbo turned to the first one and shot him too, the girl letting out a yelp as his blood covered her clothes and she backed away, shaking. Bilbo stepped forward to help her but she shook her head and started to run, sobs choking out of her as she went. Bilbo let her go, standing immobile in the middle of the street before hurrying away. He felt horrible leaving those bodies there, but there was nothing he could do – whatever else, he couldn’t be caught.

He made it back to Rohan without further incident, but as soon as he entered the tunnels he felt the familiar claustrophobia as if the walls were pressing down on him, squeezing his lungs.

He couldn’t have been back for more than thirty seconds before Thorin appeared in the corridor, staring at Bilbo in shock.

“What happened to you?” he asked, and there was anger in his voice. “Where have you _been?_ We’ve been worried–”

“Oh, Thorin, I’m fine,” Bilbo cut him off, waving his hand in the air as anger flared in his own belly. Thorin had come closer and grabbed Bilbo’s hand as it came up, taking in the graze from the cloaked figure’s knife. Bilbo pulled his hand away and moved past him into their chamber, all too aware of Thorin following him. He considered trying to shut the door behind him before Thorin could get in, but he decided against it. It would only start an argument.

Bilbo headed straight for the wash basin and shrugged off his cloak before beginning to clean the graze. Behind him Thorin had shut the door and Bilbo pretended not to notice, though his stomach was a writhing mass of nerves and annoyance.

“You were gone for hours.”

Bilbo suppressed a sigh. “Yes. Yes, I was, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.” He pulled out a vial of ointment from his belt and started applying it, his back still turned to Thorin.

“You said you’d be an hour and you don’t come back until after nightfall,” Thorin said, his footsteps loud in the chamber and then he reached Bilbo, turning him to face him. Bilbo pulled his arm away from Thorin’s touch, not in the mood for the man’s whims tonight. “Tell me how you think I’m supposed to not worry about you, Bilbo.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bilbo retorted impatiently, brushing past Thorin to get to his cloak where he’d left it on the bed and pulling out a strip of linen which he proceeded to wrap around his hand. “I’m fine, aren’t I?”

“You’re covered in blood!” Thorin said angrily, his voice echoing against the stone walls. “What were you doing? Where did you go?”

“I went to see Beorn and I had a run-in with your cloaked rivals,” Bilbo said irritably, just wanting to be alone. He picked his cloak up and moved to the door, deciding to head to his own chamber, but Thorin stopped him with a firm grip on his arm that Bilbo couldn’t dislodge. Thorin’s face seemed frozen but there was something burning in his eyes and it made Bilbo’s throat constrict tightly.

“You went to see Beorn?”

“Yes,” Bilbo bit out, trying in vain to get Thorin to let go of him. Anger was boiling up in him now, anger and resentment – what right did Thorin have to talk to him like this? To question him as if he was on trial for something?  “My _friend_ , yes, I went to see him. Thanks for letting him know I was dead, by the way, he really appreciated your _note–”_

He didn’t finish his sentence, the words cut off by Thorin’s mouth suddenly crashing down on his and his other hand coming up to fist in Bilbo’s hair, pulling hard enough he felt a spike of pain and he gasped into the kiss. Thorin seemed to take that as a sign of him yielding and pressed closer, his tongue roaming Bilbo’s mouth.

Bilbo pulled away, his breath coming hard and fast as he jerked away from Thorin, whose blue eyes were blazing, staring at him _hungrily._

“You shouldn’t have stayed so late,” Thorin said, his voice rough and Bilbo ignored the shiver of want that travelled up his spine in favour of focussing on the indignation Thorin’s words conjured in him. “I need you here.”

“He’s my _friend_ , Thorin,” he hissed. “I can stay with him as long as I want–”

“And I’m your _lover_ ,” Thorin retorted, his hands coming to rest on Bilbo’s hips and backing him towards the door until Bilbo felt the firm wood at his back and in front of him Thorin’s feverish heat. His skin was beginning to prickle, and not all of it was in discomfort; he couldn’t help the way his breath caught in his throat at the look in Thorin’s eyes. Lady, yes, Thorin was his lover and in that moment Bilbo _wanted_ him, wanted him more than he wanted to breathe. He pulled Thorin’s head down roughly, covering those lips with his own and letting out a groan of his own when Thorin’s hands came to rest on his waist, running along his body and making him shiver with desire even with the layers of cloth between them.

Thorin pressed closer, pinning Bilbo against the door. He nipped at Bilbo’s lips, making him gasp and Thorin’s tongue slid into his mouth again, stealing his breath.

With hardly any effort Thorin suddenly lifted Bilbo off the floor, his hands cupping his arse, and unconsciously Bilbo wrapped his legs around Thorin’s waist as his hands tangled in Thorin’s hair. He could feel the promise of Thorin’s burgeoning erection and he rubbed shamelessly against it, making Thorin let out a choked gasp before he deposited Bilbo on the bed.

They were a frenzy of limbs as they undressed each other, neither taking the time to draw things out and Bilbo didn’t even have time to feel self-conscious about his mottled scarring before Thorin had him in hand, working him to full hardness. He let out a whimper at the feel of Thorin’s hot and calloused hand on his shaft, his head tipping back and eyes closing in pleasure.

Thorin was kissing down his neck and Bilbo let out a disgruntled noise when that clever hand disappeared, leaving him hard and aching. He tugged on Thorin’s hair and was rewarded for his efforts by the low groan Thorin gave then, a rumbling Bilbo could feel in his chest; and then his eyes flew open at the feel of that hand, now slicked up with oil, stroking down his shaft to his buttocks, stopping by his hole. He wrapped his legs around Thorin tighter, a wordless noise escaping him.

Thorin worked him open, his mouth distracting him with kisses to his neck, his nipples. Bilbo responded in kind, stretching his neck to flick his tongue against Thorin’s nipples and trace his collarbone, the hard planes of his chest. Finally he was ready and he wriggled underneath Thorin, desperate to have him; Thorin hesitated only a moment as he lined himself with Bilbo’s hole before pushing in. Bilbo couldn’t stop the cry that left his lips at the feel of it, Thorin letting out a grunt at the feel of Bilbo’s tight little ring. It took a moment for him to gather himself enough to push in further, his movements agonisingly slow, and Bilbo needed _more_ , needed it _now–_

“Thorin,” he whispered, his hand teaching down to touch himself, his cock starting to leak he was so desperate; the sound of his name on Bilbo’s lips seemed to do something to Thorin. It was like something snapped inside of him: with a groan he caught Bilbo’s hands and pinned them to the bed, stopping him from touching himself, and drove his hips forward without mercy before pulling out and slamming back in. It was violent and rough and Bilbo could barely think he was so caught up in the pleasure of it, a stream of words pouring out of him but he didn’t know what any of them meant.

As he drove his cock in and out, Thorin released Bilbo’s hand to trail a teasing finger over Bilbo’s balls, ghosting over his cock; Bilbo’s hands moved to rest on Thorin’s shoulders as he met him thrust for brutal thrust.

Thorin’s lips were trailing over Bilbo’s skin again, tasting his scars; Bilbo reached to turn Thorin’s face so he could kiss him and Thorin bit his lip hard enough Bilbo tasted the sharp tang of blood. Thorin kissed him then, his tongue soothing where he’d bitten; his mouth travelled down to Bilbo’s neck and he nipped roughly at the skin, leaving a mark. Bilbo felt a sudden shiver down his spine, and not a good one; Thorin hadn’t done that, not since the first time when he’d realised Bilbo didn’t like it – he knew what it reminded him of–

Thorin was sucking at the mark he’d just made and Bilbo pushed his head away, not wanting it to ruin everything – but Thorin let out a growl, primal and possessive.

“Thorin,” Bilbo murmured as Thorin’s tongue soothed the bruise he’d made. His attention turned to the horrible scars, the thick white lines Bilbo couldn’t feel but he knew Thorin was tasting them, worshipping them with his tongue.

“No,” he protested, trying to pull away, but Thorin only held him in place, his tongue swirling across skin Bilbo couldn’t feel.

“You’re _mine_ ,” Thorin grunted, accentuating the word with a particularly deep thrust that made Bilbo see stars. He held onto Thorin for dear life as Thorin angled his cock perfectly–

He bit down on Bilbo’s shoulder just as his cock hit that spot in him and Bilbo was coming, his cock painting Thorin’s stomach with white even as he felt his lungs constrict at the feel of Thorin biting that mark on him. He dug his fingernails into Thorin’s back so deep he felt them break the skin and Thorin groaned as Bilbo’s walls fluttered and gripped his cock. He pulled out and thrust in again, over and over; punctuating each thrust with a grunt.

_Mine. Mine. Mine._

_Yes, I’m yours,_ Bilbo wanted to say, but he couldn’t form the words.

The sound of their skin slapping was filthy and obscene; Bilbo lay boneless underneath him, lost in the pleasure of it, until Thorin came with a roar, his seed filling Bilbo in a hot rush.

He collapsed over Bilbo before rolling off and lying next to him as they both caught their breath, Bilbo trying to ignore the goose-bumps that were forming on the skin not mottled by scars that he couldn’t explain. He could feel the bruises on his neck and shoulder pulsing dully and in the morning they’d be a violent purple. He swallowed against the lump in his throat as Thorin lifted a hand and pressed down on the marks, colour blooming under the skin and a whimper escaping Bilbo’s lips. He turned away from Thorin before he could see the tears forming in his eyes; he wanted to move away, run to his own chamber and get away from the man beside him, but he couldn’t.

He could feel Thorin’s seed still dripping from his hole, quickly cooling in the air as it trickled down his skin. He could still taste the iron tang from where Thorin had bitten him hard; he brought his trembling free hand up to his lip, touching it. When he brought it away and looked at his finger it was red with blood.

Thorin was silent beside him, his breathing slowing. His hand closed about Bilbo’s wrist, his grip firm even in sleep, and Bilbo couldn’t stop the hot tears that forced their way out then, burning his eyes.

He didn’t recognise the man beside him, holding onto Bilbo like a toy. He couldn’t find Thorin – _his_ Thorin – in the body sleeping next to him.

This was another Thorin, a Thorin he wasn’t altogether sure he liked; a Thorin he was afraid of.

He couldn’t move from that position on the bed, body curled protectively in on itself as far from the man beside him he could get while his wrist was caught as if in manacles and Thorin’s spend dried between his legs. He felt nauseous; he watched the fire burn down until eventually Thorin’s grip loosened enough that Bilbo could pull his arm free and hobble over to the wash basin and clean himself up.

He cleaned off his own seed from Thorin’s stomach too, his heart breaking at the sight of Thorin’s untroubled  face and wondering how it was the same person as the one who’d left these marks on him, who was obsessed with the reminders that Smaug had left on his body.

He stared at his broken reflection in the sullied water of the wash basin, the water distorting his face eerily. What was happening? Was it his fault?

He threw the cloth into the water, his reflection turning into a hundred ripples, and turned away. Gingerly he got dressed, his movements careful, and he moved to his own chamber and locked the door. He couldn’t face Thorin, not yet.

Not the stranger currently sleeping in their bed.

 

*

 

Despite the way his heart felt as if it was cracking inside his chest Bilbo managed to hide it; if he stiffened at Thorin’s touch just a little, no-one seemed to notice.

He missed the Shire more than ever now, and each time he thought of home – of the hills, of his armchair, of little Frodo – the question of Prim and Drogo’s deaths weighed ever more heavily on his mind.

Not the _why_ of it – no, he knew full well that it had been Smaug seeking to punish him for acting against him; it was the _how_ that he couldn’t understand, the question nagging at his mind like an itch. He thought he might go mad with it sometimes, with this never knowing – _how_ had Smaug been able to copy his writing? Lobelia’s writing? How had he known who to get to deliver those false letters?

Milo had passed a note to Nori, Tauriel had passed one to Prim. The Children’s friendship with the street orphans was hardly common knowledge, and only someone close to them could have known that Tauriel had been to the Shire before, would be recognised as a friend and not a foe.

He thought back to Nori’s pinched face the other day – and immediately shook his head. Whatever was wrong with Nori, it wasn’t because he’d been involved with Smaug. It just wasn’t possible.

But even so, something was bothering the Thief – something more than simply Sauron’s presence in the city. He’d weathered Smaug; surely Sauron wasn’t enough to make Nori look as worried as he did.

Suddenly he wanted to get out of the hideout, he needed to leave the yellow stone walls behind him for a while and step out in the fresh air. Just pretending to be alright, as if there was nothing troubling him, was utterly exhausting. He hadn’t been able to sleep much after he’d left Thorin’s chamber the night before, his mind whirling and body aching where Thorin had claimed him, marking him visibly and invisibly. He hadn’t been able to look at the bruises on his neck and shoulder when he’d dressed that morning, the sight making him shake and a memory of strangely golden eyes flash against his eyelids.

He’d go and see Nori – to see if the Thief had any clues about the letters, or if Bilbo could work out just what was bothering him.

He should have guessed Thorin would notice him leaving.

“Where are you going?”

Bilbo span around, trying not to look guilty even as he felt a tremor down his spine. Thorin’s expression was unreadable.

“To see Nori,” Bilbo said, hoping he sounded nonchalant, untroubled, and not as if all the breath was currently being squeezed out of his lungs. Thorin took a step forward and Bilbo forced himself not to step backwards. “He might have some information.”

“He’d come to us if he did,” Thorin said firmly.

“I think he knows something about how Prim and Drogo died,” Bilbo said, voice quiet. “I need to find out.”

Thorin’s eyes flashed with pain at Bilbo’s words and he glanced away for a moment before looking back at him. “I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to,” Bilbo said, hoping Thorin hadn’t noticed the flare of panic that had risen in him. “Really, I’ll be fine.”

“I want to,” Thorin said and his eyes were soft as he looked at Bilbo, which made Bilbo’s throat constrict.

Bilbo swallowed hard. “You know it’s not safe out there for you,” he said as Thorin approached; Bilbo reached for Thorin’s hands, clasping them tightly and stopping the man from coming any closer or from touching him. Thorin evidently saw it as a sign of his worry and fear for him, as he looked at Bilbo so tenderly that Bilbo had to look away. “It’s not safe,” he said again, looking down at their joined hands.

“I’ll be alright,” Thorin said. “With you by my side I’ll be more than alright, Bilbo.” Bilbo didn’t look up, his stomach doing strange things even as disappointment sat heavy on his shoulders too. He wouldn’t be able to persuade Thorin against joining him; he made sure his expression was neutral when he looked up then, hiding his feelings deep inside or him.

“Come on then,” he said and released Thorin’s hand, turning and heading away before Thorin could say anything, his pace fast enough to discourage idle chatter. He could feel Thorin’s gaze burning him but he didn’t look around.

Just before they surfaced near Bombur’s inn, Thorin grabbed hold of Bilbo’s arm, turning him to face him. Bilbo’s breath caught in his throat at that, Thorin looking down at him with confusion on his face and he looked away. Thorin brought his other hand up to Bilbo’s cheek and Bilbo could hear his breathing quicken in the silence of the tunnel; as Thorin’s thumb caressed his skin he pulled his face away.

“Come on,” he said, but Thorin didn’t release him and Bilbo paused, still half turned away.

“Why do you shy away from me?” Thorin asked, his voice soft and confusion clear. “It’s like you cannot bear my touches.”

Bilbo had tensed at Thorin’s question and he let out a breath.

“Come on, Thorin,” he said, not wanting to have this conversation.

“No, Bilbo,” Thorin said and he clasped Bilbo’s hand, keeping him from moving away. “Please. Why? Has something happened? Is… is it me?” His voice was...scared, pleading. He sounded so uncertain and Bilbo wanted to comfort him, to hold him. He sounded like the lost Thorin of before, not the one who laid claim to Bilbo as if he were a _thing_ , not a human being.

Bilbo screwed his eyes shut. How could he explain to Thorin what he felt – that he loved Thorin more than he thought was possible but that there was something happening to him – something that made him afraid and scared? Something that Bilbo didn’t understand.

“No,” Bilbo said, not wanting to talk about this. “I mean, yes, maybe – but please, Thorin, let’s not do this now–”

“When else then, Bilbo?” Thorin asked. “You avoid me, as if you cannot stand to be near me. When else will we talk if you refuse to be in my company?”

“We will, Thorin, I promise,” Bilbo said, his hand still caught in Thorin’s. “But please–”

“Why?” Thorin asked, his voice pained. “Why do you distance yourself?” he sounded so terribly, terribly lost.

Bilbo didn’t look at him for a moment before reaching up with his free hand to his cloak, pulling his hood down and revealing the angry purple bruises blooming on his skin. Thorin’s eyes flickered downwards to them, his brows knitting together in a frown.

“Because sometimes being close to you hurts,” Bilbo whispered.

Thorin froze, letting Bilbo’s hand drop. Bilbo quickly pulled his hood back up, hiding the bruises from view. Thorin was looking at him, aghast.

“I don’t remember – Bilbo, I didn’t – Mahal, I never meant to–” He choked off his words, fear plain on his face and he turned from Bilbo, hiding his face in his hands. “By the Stone I never meant to hurt you,” he said, his voice rough, cracking. “Never that.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo said, his heart twisting in distress. “I don’t–”

Thorin turned to look at him and there was a hollow, haunted look in his eyes that cut off Bilbo’s words completely.

“What’s happening to me, Bilbo?” he whispered, voice fearful.

Bilbo wanted to hold him and never let him go, but he settled for clasping Thorin’s hands, squeezing them tightly.

“You’re a good man, Thorin,” he said fiercely. “Whatever your mind tells you, whatever it shows you, remember that. Remember your _goodness_ , Thorin.” He felt his throat burning with the threat of tears and leant forward to press a kiss to Thorin’s chest, just above his heart. He doubted he felt it beneath the many layers he wore but Thorin’s breath caught at the gentle gesture. “You’re strong. You’re kind and loving and good. You’re stronger than the shadows, Thorin, _so_ much stronger.”

_Don’t let them take you. Please, please don’t let them take you from me._

Thorin clutched at him, his breathing ragged but he didn’t say anything; they simply stood there for a few moments in silence, Bilbo feeling as if his heart would break out of love for this man. How could he fear him? How could he be afraid when Thorin was all that was good in this world? He’d pull through, his light would keep the shadows at bay and this would soon be nothing more than a distant memory.

Eventually Thorin pulled away, swallowing thickly and holding Bilbo at arm’s length. He gave a short nod and released him.

Bilbo didn’t say anything and they turned and surfaced in the streets of Erebor, searching Nori and answers.

They found Nori in the back of Bombur’s inn; the rotund man waved them in cheerfully with the promise of a mug of beer to follow, and they saw Nori sitting talking with a Thief over in the corner. They headed over and waited for him to finish.

Nori glanced at them as they approached. “We’ll finish this later, Dorion,” he said and the Thief in front of him nodded, slipping out of his seat and into the crowd of Thieves near the darts. Bilbo and Thorin sat in the newly vacated booth and Nori regarded them, his eyes tight though he gave off an aura of insouciance.

“What’s this about?” he asked them. “Isn’t it dangerous for you to be coming here?”

“We wouldn’t come if it wasn’t important,” Bilbo said. “I need to talk to Tauriel. Where is she?”

Nori shrugged. “She ain’t here.”

“When will she be back? It’s really important I speak to her, Nori.”

Again Nori shrugged, but Bilbo saw his eyes narrow for a moment and the tightness grow. He paused, considering that for a moment.

“Nori,” he said, more softly this time. “I need to speak to her about how my cousins died. I think she knows something.”

Nori’s face went white and he shook his head jerkily. “I ain’t seen her,” he said and he sounded worried. “I ain’t seen her in weeks now.”

“What?” Thorin sounded surprised and Bilbo felt the same, something unpleasant and icy washing over him at Nori’s words. “When did you see her last?”

“About a week before you came back, Bilbo,” Nori said, his brow creasing with worry. “I don’t know where she’s gone.”

Bilbo could see that Nori’s worry for Tauriel wasn’t simply worry over an errant Thief; he’d seen them together before. He knew it was something deeper, even if they hadn’t perhaps acknowledged it as what it was. But the fact Tauriel was one of their only clues about what happened to Bilbo’s cousins and now she was missing… that didn’t sit right. It felt off.

“That long?” he asked, goose-bumps forming along his good right arm. “And you’ve heard nothing?”

Nori shook his head, then stopped, opening his mouth as if wanting to say something. He glanced down and pulled something out of his jacket pocket; he held it between his fingers tightly.

“I’ve not heard from her,” he said. “But I got this.”

He hesitated just a moment before handing them the piece of paper. It was little more than a scrap, folded over on itself many times.

Bilbo looked down at the words, scratched onto the paper in black ink. He could feel Thorin reading over his shoulder.

_Tell Thorin to go to the manor._

Thorin stiffened beside him. Bilbo glanced up from the letter to see Thorin with a stony expression on his face, jaw set and eyes hard and glittering – though Bilbo was surprised at how much fear they held too.

“What manor?” he asked. “Where do you have to go? Thorin?”

Thorin ignored his question and his hard gaze turned to Nori, who looked uncomfortable and worried.

“Where did you get this? Who sent it?”

Nori shrugged and bit his lip. “I dunno. It was just waiting for me behind Bombur’s bar one morning. No one knew how it got there.”

Thorin’s fists had clenched on the table and Bilbo’s heart was starting to thud a little painfully. What did it mean? Why did it affect Thorin so much? And where was Tauriel?

“What does it mean, Thorin?” Bilbo asked, perhaps a little more sharply than he meant to but Thorin’s clenched fists and dark expression were making him tense. Thorin glanced at him, almost as if he’d forgotten Bilbo was there. “What’s it talking about?”

Thorin glanced at the piece of paper – something so innocent and yet it held the power to make Thorin’s blue eyes fill with fear, to make him go stiff with something Bilbo couldn’t place – and then at his hands, clenched so tightly the knuckles were white.

“It doesn’t matter. I won’t be going.”

“Thorin–”

“It doesn’t _matter,”_ Thorin said, more forcefully this time. Bilbo felt a twinge of anger prickle along his skin – it evidently did matter or Thorin wouldn’t be so affected by it – but at Thorin’s look, pleading yet angry, he let it slide. Thorin would tell him later – he couldn’t keep whatever this was a secret. “We need to get back.”

“No,” Bilbo said. “You go. I need to speak to someone. One of my contacts.”

Thorin looked as if he was about to protest but Bilbo gave him a look and he shut his mouth; the memory of the moment in the tunnel – his breakdown – was perhaps still too fresh. He glanced away. “Alright,” was all he said.

They said their goodbyes to Nori and parted ways, Thorin heading back to Rohan while Bilbo slipped through the streets towards the Citadel, where he hoped he’d still find Milo and his street urchins.

He found him with some of the older children in one of the inns, a bowl of thin stew in front of him. He saw Bilbo and grinned, not only because of the coin Bilbo tossed towards the innkeep and the loaf of warm fluffy bread that appeared soon afterwards.

“What d’ya need?” Milo asked, his eyes closing as he bit into the bread. He evidently hadn’t heard about Bilbo’s _fall_ – which he was grateful for. He didn’t really want to have to explain it all again.

“You delivered a note to one of the Thieves a couple of months ago,” Bilbo said. “I need to know who gave it to you.”

Milo looked thoughtful. “The one that was meant for you?”

Bilbo nodded.

Milo swallowed his bite of bread. “I dunno who it was exactly. They kept their face in shadow. But it was a woman, for certain.”

Bilbo felt the knot in his stomach tighten a notch.

“A woman? And you don’t remember anything else about her?”

Milo shook his head. “Not really. The only other thing was – well, I wasn’t really sure if I saw it or not, she cornered me in the dark – but as she walked away her hood slipped just a bit and her hair looked red. Like fire.”

“Fire?” Bilbo echoed, feeling cold ice creeping down his neck.

“It was only a second,” Milo said, shrugging. “But that’s what it looked like.”

Bilbo swallowed and nodded, getting to his feet. “Thank you, Milo.” He pushed over a couple of coins. “Treat the little ones later.”

He made his way back to Rohan, his pulse sounding like a drum in his head, his stomach tight with suspicion and dread curling itself around his heart like a noose.

 

***

 

Back in Rohan, Thorin didn’t let on how much the letter had unnerved him. How just the mention of that place had left him shaken. The shadows still haunted that place – still haunted his mind. He couldn’t go back there; he couldn’t face the memories it held, the pain it would bring back to the surface. He’d buried that pain so deep inside himself and he could feel the barrier quivering, cracking at the first shadowy fingers of the spectre of his past.

He could feel Bilbo’s eyes on him when the other man returned from wherever he’d been – though every time he met his gaze Bilbo looked away. He couldn’t shake the feeling that had plagued him since that morning, since he’d seen the marks on Bilbo’s neck.

Marks he’d made; marks he _didn’t remember_ making.

He remembered the hot anger that has washed over him when Bilbo gad come back late – anger and cold _fear_ chilling his heart – and the jealousy that had squeezed at his lungs before an all-encompassing _need_ had taken him. The next thing he knew he’d woken to an empty bed the next morning.

He couldn’t bear to think what he’d done – that he’d done _that_. He knew what it did to Bilbo; he knew that it hurt him, made him scared and brought back memories he didn’t want to remember. He couldn’t bear to think he’d caused Bilbo pain, pain enough that Bilbo couldn’t even stand to be close to him. He’d gone through plenty in his life – losing his family, his name, living in fear – but it all felt so unimportant in the face of causing Bilbo hurt.

He still felt an unnameable hotness, a clawing at his throat when he thought about Bilbo – Bilbo leaving, Bilbo with someone else, Bilbo dying – and he knew he would do anything to keep him at his side. Even if it meant hiding like this for the rest of his days...he would choose it over the agony of losing Bilbo again. Never that.

He didn’t tell Balin about the letter, hoping to keep it a secret – if he didn’t think about it enough, it wouldn’t exist – but Bilbo must have mentioned it as Balin drew him to one side, his eyes tight with worry.

“Are you going to go?”

Thorin didn’t look at him.

“I cannot. I can’t go back there, Balin.” he sucked in a breath. “I can’t. We don’t even know for certain who is summoning me there.”

Balin hesitated. “Bilbo believes it might be Tauriel.”

Thorin’s head shot up and he looked at Balin in shock.

“Tauriel? It can’t be.” Balin shrugged and Thorin couldn’t stop his gaze from flickering over to where Bilbo sat with Ori, the heat intensifying in his stomach and tingling in his fingertips at the sight.

“It’s a possibility,” Balin said. “Why else would Nori not have seen her in weeks? To think that we’ve been trusting her all this time…” Balin shook his head. “But it would explain how whoever it is behind this note knows about the manor.”

“Does he know?” Thorin couldn’t keep the wistful note out of his voice as he nodded in Bilbo’s direction, unable to look at him again for fear of the angry writhing cords of heat winding their way through his body.

“No. But he suspects.”

The cords tightened further, almost cutting off his breathing. He turned and left the room, not wanting to think about it anymore.

Later that evening Bilbo hadn’t come to bed and Thorin could feel the shadow of a nightmare threatening, pressing down on him; he was afraid to go to sleep. He was afraid of what he’d see once he closed his eyes, once his guard was down and his mind had free reign over him. He was so, so afraid.

He let out a shaky breath as the nightmare pressed down further on him and sat up, pulling on his boots and shirt. He’d go and find Bilbo, urge him to come to bed or stay with him wherever he was. He couldn’t be on his own tonight.

He headed to Bilbo’s chamber, about to reach out and open the door when he paused, hearing voices from the other side. He leaned his head a little closer; he wasn’t going to eavesdrop, just work out who it was in there.

“...It’s not supposed to be like that, is it?” That was Fíli’s voice. Thorin frowned and leant closer; what could his niece be talking about? “You’re worried about him. About what’s happening.”

“Of course I’m worried, Fíli.” That was Bilbo’s voice, a hint of tiredness present and Thorin’s throat closed up momentarily. “And yes, I’m worried for your uncle. But that’s for me to worry about, not you.”

“He’s stopped eating. He looks as though he never sleeps anymore.”

“He has...nightmares.”

“Ma told me a story once, about our great-grandfather. He used to have nightmares too, before Smaug happened, and he used to lock himself in his study with this stone – I don’t remember its name–”

“The Arkenstone.” Bilbo’s voice sounded hollow.

“Yes, that’s it. He hardly spoke, never ate, he had to be reminded to do things like change his clothes. And all he’d say was that the stone was his, that he’d never part with it, couldn’t lose it. That he needed it.”

“It was a long time ago, Fíli. A different Durin. Your uncle is not his grandfather.”

“Maybe not. But I know you’re scared of him.”

Thorin couldn’t listen anymore, couldn’t hear anything above the blood rushing in his ears and the pounding of his heart in his chest. His breath was ragged, afraid; he felt cold as stone and yet as hot as if he was on fire. He turned and fled, uncaring of the noise his boots made on the flagstone floor, and shut himself in his chamber as if he could keep out their words too. But they were burying themselves deep into him, lodging themselves in his chest, in his brain, like bullets and he couldn’t dodge them, couldn’t pull them out.

Bilbo was afraid of him. Fíli thought he was going mad – his own niece, doubting him!

Bilbo was right. Thorin was not Thrór; this was a different time, a different Durin.

“I am not my grandfather,” Thorin whispered to the empty room. “I am not my grandfather,” he said, louder, hoping it would keep the threatening nightmare away. It hung like a heavy shadow over him, the dark weight of it sitting on his shoulders and pulling him down; when he spoke the words it seemed to pause, as if considering.

_I am not my grandfather._

Thorin muttered it under his breath like a mantra as he paced his chamber like a caged bear, clinging to those words like a drowned sailor to a rock. There was sanity in those words.

But eventually he grew too weary and he fell asleep; even the mantra wasn’t enough to keep away the ghostly glow of the Arkenstone from his dream.

 

***

 

Fíli had come to him after dinner, her eyes wide as she asked him what was happening, what was _going_ to happen to them. He supposed she trusted him to be honest – he had helped keep her secret about Éomer, after all, and the other Sons would be inclined to try and protect her from the truth. And to a certain extent so did he – he didn’t tell her everything about Thorin’s nightmares, the extent to which Thorin’s mood swings left him nervous and shaken, but she didn’t need him to. Years of training under her mother’s eagle eyes made Fíli more observant than he’d given her credit for.

And she’d accused him of being scared of Thorin. He’d opened his mouth to reply; hesitated just a moment–

And then he’d heard a noise at the door. They both turned sharply, but the door didn’t open; Bilbo strode over and pulled it open but there was no-one there. Just an empty corridor. But someone had been there; Bilbo felt the pattern of the wind on his neck leaving a chill.

He’d said goodnight to Fíli after that, urging her to go and get some sleep. Yavanna knew the days were trying enough, without staying up all night worrying. He couldn’t follow his own advice, however; he spent much of the night pacing his chamber, trying to work up the courage to join Thorin and push aside the sick feeling that sat heavy in his stomach.

He couldn’t stop his thoughts returning to Tauriel – where was she? Was she the one who had sent that note to Nori? And while Thorin hadn’t told him where that note had been urging him to go, Bilbo wasn’t a fool. There was only one place in Arda Thorin would refuse to go, besides the Lonely Tower (and he’d climbed that readily enough to save Bilbo, that fateful night a month ago). The only other place he was afraid of was the Durin’s manor. His old family home.

Bilbo had never seen it himself but he knew of its fate. After it had been gutted by Smaug’s fire it had been abandoned, avoided by all; some avoided it out of suspicion, but Bilbo and the Children had never gone there out of respect. Even before he’d known Thorin – something which seemed inconceivable to him now – he’d still known of what had befallen Thorin’s family, and some things just cut too deep to be simple points of interest for curious wanderers. No, Bilbo had never gone to the Durin mansion and he had no wish to. He didn’t want to see the physical proof of Thorin’s loss, of his pain.

But if it _was_ Tauriel who had sent that note...perhaps this was their only chance of finding her and speaking to her – of finding out the truth about how Prim and Drogo had died.

He didn’t go to Thorin that night, instead keeping himself locked away in his room and he was grateful when Thorin didn’t try and join him. He couldn’t stop a thread of guilt worming its way through him – what if it had been Thorin who’d heard him and Fíli talking? He’d have heard them speaking of the Arkenstone, of Thorin’s grandfather, of Bilbo being scared of him… he ignored the pain in his heart. He _was_ afraid of Thorin Oakenshield, sometimes; he was afraid of what he could see him becoming, even as it broke his heart to see him brought so low.

The next day Thorin looked haggard, his face pale and drawn, but his eyes were sharp still as they turned to Bilbo. It made his breath catch in his throat to have them turned on him with such intensity. The last time Thorin’s eyes had been so intense, burning with such ferocity… Bilbo’s cheeks flushed to think of it even as goose-bumps broke out on his skin.

“The note Nori received wants me to go to the old Durin manor,” Thorin said, his voice monotonous, stilted. “To my old home. I will be going today. I want you to stay here.”

“What?” Bilbo exclaimed, his brain racing to keep up. Thorin had finally told him what it meant but was asking him to _stay?_ While he went off and put himself in Yavanna knew what sort of danger? “No, Thorin, you can’t go alone! What are you thinking?”

“It’s safest this way.” Thorin looked away from him, staring at a point just above Bilbo’s head. He sounded mechanic. “You will stay here in case anything happens.”

“No.” Bilbo shook his head, bringing a hand up and waving it in front of Thorin, who barely flinched. “No, Thorin Oakenshield, you _idiot,_ you are _not_ leaving me here to _wait_ for you! If you go I go. I’m just as much an assassin as you are and I won’t stay here while you run off to Yavanna-knows-what might be waiting for you there!” Thorin still didn’t look at him and Bilbo was breathing heavily with the intensity of his emotion – anger that Thorin would try and dictate what he should do, frustration that Thorin was insisting on treating him like this, fear at what might happen.

“I can’t lose you.” Thorin said. “I can’t. I can’t, Bilbo.”

Bilbo ignored the way his stomach squirmed and softened his voice, focussing on the uneven beating of his heart. “Do you think I could bear to lose you?” he asked and finally, finally something flashed across Thorin’s face, something intense and strong and pained before he turned.

“Then we go at midday.” And with that he strode away out of the room, leaving Bilbo with his heart pounding hard and eyes prickling uncomfortably. He swallowed and followed Thorin out, trying to distract himself with helping Kíli with his lessons. They’d been forgotten about in much of the confusion and the lad wasn’t best pleased that Balin had started them again, but even lessons couldn’t dampen his natural cheerfulness.

At midday Bilbo followed Thorin out of the tunnels. The other man was stiff with tension, his back straight as a rod and walking in grim silence. Bilbo wondered if it was fear that made him so, or something else.

They journeyed in silence, travelling under the city in the tunnels until they reached Erebor, where Thorin led them to Bombur’s inn and Nori. Nori looked surprised to see them until he saw Thorin’s expression, and his own face turned serious.

“We go to the manor,” Thorin said. “You’re the one who received the note. I’d have you there with me.”

Nori swallowed thickly and nodded, standing. “I’ll come.”

They headed back out into the streets and Bilbo was surprised when Thorin led them back into the tunnels. Bilbo had expected they’d make the last of the journey through the streets. Bilbo followed, a frown beginning to form on his face.

“Where are we going?”

“To the manor.” Thorin’s voice was still flat, emotionless.

“Don’t we get there through the streets?”

“The tunnels lead to the house. My family built these tunnels.”

Oh. Of course. Bilbo ducked his head, not that Thorin would see it, and followed through these now unfamiliar parts of the tunnels. The air here was drier, colder, though less musty. Bilbo remembered the Durins had lived near the mines that had been the source of so much of their wealth; perhaps the tunnels led to them as well as the mansion.

Thorin stopped in front of a seemingly blank spot of wall and Bilbo stopped too, watching Thorin closely. The other man was still tense, holding himself as if expecting to be attacked at any second, though his face was still expressionless.

“Is this it?” Bilbo asked softly.

Thorin gave a jerky nod and let out a breath. Bilbo heard it shake as he exhaled.

“Thorin, whatever we find up there–”

“I’m afraid.” His voice was rough as it cut across Bilbo’s and Bilbo reached out to squeeze his hand; he didn’t pull away when Thorin held it so tightly it hurt. He ignored Nori behind him in favour of returning Thorin’s grip.

“I’m right here,” he reminded him and Thorin gave another nod before releasing Bilbo’s hand and pushing the bricks in front of him in a certain order, revealing a hidden door. Swallowing hard, Bilbo followed Thorin as he stepped into the darkness ahead of them, the air immediately warmer and musty here, but Thorin’s steps were sure.

The three of them climbed the spiral staircase in the pitch blackness that surrounded them and Bilbo could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up at the feel of the darkness pressing down on him. Thorin stopped and Bilbo nearly crashed into him but caught himself just in time; Thorin was fiddling with something in front of him and Bilbo realised it was a wall, a tiny pinprick of light at about lock height. Beyond this door was Thorin’s old home – or what remained of it.

Thorin pushed open the door.

They stepped forward into silence, a silence so deafening it almost sounded like screaming in Bilbo’s ears and he resisted the urge to clamp his hands over them to block it out. They were in what looked like a study – there was a lump of charred wood that might have been a desk once upon a time over by the stone fireplace; the walls were black with smoke and dust and the windows were smashed in – the glass lying in shards on the ground that crunched beneath their feet. Bilbo wondered if it was from the fire or if they’d been broken in afterwards. Dust swirled in the daylight that shone in through the empty windows, drifting and curling around their feet in the air. Bilbo could smell the earthy scent of moss from outside. Even the birds had deserted this place.

Bilbo couldn’t stop his eyes wandering around the room, taking in the fine carving of the stone walls – he could see that underneath the smoke damage there had once been intricate tableaus carved into the stone, depicting stories and legends, though he couldn’t recognise any. He supposed Thorin would have known them, once upon a time.

Thorin carefully picked his way over to the empty doorway, no door still remaining, and Bilbo tore his gaze from the nearest carving, which appeared to show a King with a crown standing on the ramparts of a mountain castle, and followed him out into the corridor. Here it was the same – the walls were blackened and sooty, dust motes floating in the air; Bilbo pressed his handkerchief to his mouth and nose. Not much of what had once decorated these halls now remained; the house was only still standing thanks to the abundance of stone. There was brightness up ahead and Thorin’s steps seemed to falter, but he forced himself on and they stepped into the light of the entrance hall.

Huge windows, once filled with glass but now empty, let in the daylight and revealed the grand stone staircase leading up to a second floor; a shattered chandelier lay in the middle of the floor at the foot of the stairs, the metal melted and twisted and the glass now mostly dust that crunched underfoot. Bilbo’s heart was in his throat and he couldn’t bear to see it; he didn’t want to think what Thorin was feeling at being here in his old home, in the place he’d once been happy and which he’d watched burn with his family inside.

“You came.”

They span around at the sound of the voice, echoing strangely in the grand hall; a figure stepped into view on the balcony upstairs. They pulled down their brown woollen cloak and Bilbo felt his heart stop at the familiar head of red hair.

“Tauriel?” he asked, disbelief in his voice. He’d hoped he’d been wrong, he’d hoped that he’d been jumping to the wrong conclusion… Beside him Nori was still as stone.

Tauriel – if it was really her – gave a small smile. He could see her skin was pale, her hair knotted and unkempt but still that fiery red. “Yes. It’s been a long time.” Her head made an unconscious movement, as if she was still tossing those fiery locks behind her just as she’d used to do.

“What are you doing, Tauriel?” Nori spoke, his voice hoarse, and Tauriel’s green eyes flickered to him, her face falling just for a moment before it hardened again. “Why did you leave?”

“Why have you brought me here?” Thorin growled before Tauriel could answer, anger evident in his voice.

“I’ve come to make you an offer.” Tauriel spoke and her voice was clear and strong, if less cheerful than it used to be. She turned and headed to the staircase, stepping down onto the first step and pausing.

“An offer?” Thorin demanded. “What do you mean?”

Tauriel shrugged, her eyes fixed on Thorin. “I mean an offer. Sauron is willing to do a deal with you.”

“Sauron?” Bilbo gasped at the same time as Nori let out a breathless “Tauriel–”

“Sauron doesn’t want to hunt you forever, Thorin,” she said, ignoring them. “He knows of you, he knows what you’re capable of. You’re a killer, Thorin. You could be the best, if you were to join him.”

Bilbo could see Thorin had turned as white as a sheet, his hair dark against his skin and his eyes wide. They were fixed on Tauriel and full of something Bilbo couldn’t place; he was tense, ready to spring.

“I don’t kill innocents,” Thorin spat. “Tell Sauron to take his offer and–”

“He said you’d say something like that.” Tauriel took another step and Bilbo and Nori stood, too tense to move and concentrating on her words. “He said you’d have some foolish notion of right and wrong, some moralistic reason for not joining him. But think, Thorin. If you join him you could be free. Your sister, your niece and nephew – they’d all be free. You’d be rich.”

“I care nothing for these false promises,” Thorin said, his mouth turning into a sneer. “You know as well as I do they’re nothing but empty words.”

“You could have all the gold you wanted. Enough of it to rebuild this place, fill it with gold and gems and jewels–”

“Stop it, Tauriel,” Bilbo cut in, suddenly finding his senses again. “Stop this.” Thorin’s gaze was still fixed on Tauriel, his expression full of anger and his fists clenched at his side.

Halfway down the stairs and she paused, watching Thorin closely. Her voice was strangely soft as she spoke.

“You could have the Arkenstone, Thorin,” she said. “He’d happily give it to you, if you joined him.”

“Tauriel,” Bilbo said sharply and this time she looked at him, pinning him with her green gaze. “Why are you doing this?”

She shrugged. “Sauron isn’t what he seems. He’s willing to forgive your murder of Smaug if you join him.”

Thorin was still as stone, frozen at the mention of the Arkenstone, and Bilbo’s heart was pounding so fast he couldn’t breathe. He shook his head. “No. Why are you doing _this?_ Why are you in league with him? You were one of us–”

She laughed then, a sound so bitter it almost physically hurt. Bilbo saw Nori flinch. “You’ve no idea what it’s been like,” she said, her voice venomous and she shook her head. “Never to know where you’re from, where you belong, and then you find out and it’s taken from you–”

The look she gave Bilbo then pinned him to the spot with its fierceness, its anger.

“You belonged with us,” Nori said. “You belonged with _me._ ”

She shook her head and her gaze flicked back to Thorin, and there was a fury, a pain in her voice that cut Bilbo to his core. “What do you say, Thorin _Oakenshield_? Will you join Sauron and restore the pride of your house back to where it belongs? Let the Durins be spoken of with awe and fear rather than _scorn_?”

Thorin was still not moving; Bilbo could see his chest rising and falling rapidly. His silence was worrying; Bilbo knew the Arkenstone haunted him more than he would ever tell anyone, and he feared it – Tauriel’s offer might be the last straw–

His mind was whirling with Tauriel’s words – what did she mean, she’d found where she belonged? And that it was taken ? Bilbo never had been told her story, her origins; he’d assumed she’d simply never wanted to talk of them, but if it was that she’d never known… where _was_ she from?

Suddenly he had an image of a head of very similar red hair and he felt coldness rush through him. Red hair was rare in these parts.

“Tauriel, this isn’t Thorin’s fault,” he said through lips that felt numb. “He wasn’t the one who killed him.”

Her eyes flashed with anger as she looked at him and Bilbo could feel Nori’s eyes on him.

“What d’ya mean?” Nori asked behind him, but Bilbo kept his eyes on Tauriel. He could see Thorin’s hands shaking, trembling like leaves and his breathing was too quick.

“I know you think revenge is what you need but you didn’t know him, not really–”

“I spent my whole life thinking I was _nobody_ , that I didn’t really come from anywhere,” Tauriel’s voice was shaking. “And then I found out, only a couple of months ago. Somebody had known my father, had tracked me down. And then _he_ was there, saying we could be together now that we’d found each other – that our father would have wanted us to–”

“He made you spy on us, didn’t he?” Bilbo asked, his heart hammering. _Oh, Tauriel;_ his heart broke for her. Smaug’s father had been known for his wandering hands – and she was the result. “He told you if you did what he said, you’d go and live with him and you’d be a family.”

“That was all I wanted,” Tauriel said, continuing her descent though her steps were faltering. “I just wanted a family. I wanted to be loved.”

“ _I_ loved you,” Nori said, his voice little more than a whisper as he stepped forward, his hands outstretched. “I love you, Tauriel. Has that never been enough?”

Bilbo could see her eyes glittering and her mouth was a thin line. “It’s not the same, Nori, not the same–”

“I don’t care one bit about where you came from, what you did before,” he said, and Bilbo could hear his voice cracking. “I just wanted you. And you chose – you chose–”

“He was my _brother,_ Nori! Don’t tell me you would choose me over your brothers, I know what they mean to you–”

“I would have given you the earth,” Nori spat, turning away, and Tauriel had finally reached the bottom of the stairs.

Thorin gave a low moan and Bilbo immediately rushed to him, ignoring Tauriel, and clutched his arm. Thorin turned to him, his eyes wild and expression one of terror as he gripped onto Bilbo. Bilbo cupped his face, holding him, desperately trying to hold back the fear he could see engulfing Thorin, pressing down on him; he was only vaguely aware of Tauriel’s sob of ‘ _I’m sorry’_ as she dashed past him towards Nori, who held her. Tears were streaming down Tauriel’s face and Nori’s eyes were hard and glittering. Bilbo looked into Thorin’s eyes, trying to anchor him to the present – anchor him in reality, away from the shadows and the things he was seeing that made him look this terrified.

He could just see Nori and Tauriel out of the corner of his eye.

Tauriel was clutching at Nori, who brushed her red hair out of the way and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Why did you do it, Tauriel?” he asked, voice shaky.

Tauriel shook her head. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Forgive me, please, forgive me.” She was holding Nori as if he was the only thing keeping her upright.

“You knew what he was to us,” Nori said, even as his thumbs wiped away the tears from her cheeks. “You still chose him.”

“Please,” Tauriel whispered. Bilbo could see her hand moving and he turned, mouth opening to shout a warning – but he was too late.

“ _No!”_ Nori let out an anguished cry as Tauriel crumpled, turning limp in his arms, and Nori’s knife clattered to the floor, red with blood. Nori fell to his knees as Tauriel dropped, laying her down gently as he took in the blood pouring from her torso, turning her shirt – once white and now grey with dirt – crimson. Bilbo’s heart had stopped but he couldn’t move, could only carry on holding Thorin and watching as Nori bent over Tauriel, pained sounds leaving his mouth.

Her chest was still fluttering up and down, little breaths huffing out of her mouth though they grew weaker with every second.

“Forgive me,” she whispered.

Nori said nothing, only held her hand and pressed his forehead to hers; Bilbo saw her eyes close and then she stilled, no more rise or fall of her chest. Her hand lay limp, fingers curling upwards; Nori didn’t lift his head.

Thorin let out a gasp and Bilbo turned to him, too bewildered by what had just happened to do anything other than keep him upright.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin choked out, gripping onto Bilbo tightly and his breath coming in great shaking gasps, his voice breaking on the words. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry–”

Nori let out a noise of anguish and Thorin turned to him, his eyes no longer wild. They widened as he took in Tauriel’s prone form, the blood pooling on the floor, and he pressed his head to Bilbo’s shoulder, his body wracked with sobs; Bilbo could do nothing but hold him, there in the burned out entrance hall as late autumn sunshine shone in through the empty windows and Tauriel’s blood dried on the dusty floor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3
> 
> Did I mention the fact it'll be a happy ending?


	15. Sins of the Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There was something hard tucked into his cloak, near to his heart; with trembling fingers he reached for it, feeling its cold smooth surface, like glass._
> 
> _In his hand was the Arkenstone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay everyone!! Life has been pretty mental recently but finally finally, here is the penultimate chapter of Blood From Stone! As usual all my love and thanks <3

**Chapter XV**

 

They buried her under a clear night sky, the ancient light of the stars caressing their skin as they blinked and twinkled distantly in the dark velvet night.

She had no other family that they knew of, though her revelation had rocked them all to the very core – the cruel circumstances that had led to one of their own being linked to _Smaug…_  But despite that, she’d had many friends and they gathered out there in the forest to say their goodbyes.

No one spoke of what had passed, of what had happened in that burnt out, crumbling shell of the Durin manor. No one mentioned the betrayal; the words spoken there weren’t repeated. Bilbo had been numb, watching Nori clutching at her limp body, running those once-lustrous fiery locks through his fingers. But then he’d stood, his face a pale mask and eyes red but dry. He’d seemed almost detached as he’d voiced his wish to bury her himself before standing stiffly and lifting her body, cradling it close to his chest.

Thorin had been trembling as they made their way back to Rohan through the tunnels, still dazed, though he stayed silent and his eyes were shuttered. He didn’t say a word to anyone, locking himself in his chamber and not even letting Bilbo speak to him; he didn’t respond when Bilbo had tried to coax him out to join them for Tauriel’s funeral. Bilbo had given up and was going to leave him when the door opened and Thorin stood there, dark circles under his eyes and face set hard as marble.

Throughout the ceremony he was silent and stony, his back ramrod straight and body tense. Bilbo couldn’t help but watch him out of the corner of his eye, his own stomach twisting uncomfortably. He felt like a fraud, there at her funeral – he hadn’t even known her that long – but in the face of Thorin’s silent stillness he felt he had to put in enough sadness for two. Whatever was going through Thorin’s mind, whatever was stopping him from mourning, he’d want to have said goodbye. Perhaps when he woke up from whatever trance he was in he’d be grateful.

Bilbo felt a brief flash of anger at him then – why could he not pull himself together? Could he not push aside his thoughts and be strong for his kin, who’d lost one of their closest friends – and in Nori’s case, his lover? He swallowed down the bitterness that rose in his throat as he glanced at Thorin, standing to one side in the shadow of a tree, removed from the rest of them. Bilbo couldn’t see his expression.

Dís seemed to see it too; she caught Bilbo’s eye, her own eyes wide and brow furrowed. Bilbo shook his head and moved forwards to where she and the other Sons were gathered, clutching garlands of night stock and gillyflowers. Their heads were bowed and they watched as Tauriel’s friends said their own goodbyes. Nori was still dry-eyed, though his gaze seemed sightless, distant.

“She loved the stars,” he said quietly to no-one in particular. “She used to go out and stare at them. She could spend whole nights like that, just staring up at the sky.”

Dori placed a hand on his brother’s arm and Nori didn’t pull away. He let out a sigh as Ori leant against his shoulder and Nori pulled him in for a hug. Bilbo looked away. He missed Frodo, he missed Prim and Drogo, he missed Lobelia… he missed Thorin. He could see Thorin was hurting, was struggling against _something_ but he could feel him building up his walls again, brick by brick. It felt as though there was a universe stretching out between them, no matter how tightly Bilbo held him or how close Thorin pulled him. He wasn’t the same, that much was certain.

He’d told Beorn Thorin was breaking before his very eyes and it was no lie. He remembered when he first met Thorin – he’d thought he was rude, proud and aloof. And he was all of those things: it was only later that Bilbo had realised there was more to him, a softer Thorin that hid beneath that cold exterior to protect itself. Bilbo remembered wondering how it was that Thorin Oakenshield _wasn’t_ broken, _wasn’t_ hopeless and defeated. But perhaps all _this_ was the final straw; the nightmares and Sauron were enough to break even Thorin.

Bilbo couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let Thorin give up, lose hope. He would not let him be driven mad. He would give anything to keep him safe, even if it meant never seeing the Shire again.

He looked around when he felt the skin on his neck begin to prickle; from where he stood a few yards away, Thorin’s eyes were fixed on him, unblinking, something unreadable in them. Bilbo felt the familiar frisson of foreboding along his spine; Thorin turned on his heel and headed into the trees, back towards the city. Bilbo watched him go, part of him wanting to chase after him, make sure he was safe; the other part of him was too afraid, and there was another part of him which felt _anger_.

Bilbo forced himself to breathe out through his nose and turn back to the others, putting Thorin out of mind. He wouldn’t go very far; something may be preying on his mind but he knew it was dangerous for him in the city and that even out here in the woods, he shouldn’t be alone.

When they’d all finished saying their goodbyes and the earth and flowers had been scattered, they headed back to the city. No one spoke, and Bilbo doubted they would have even if they could. Tauriel’s death was weighing heavily on all of them.

They found Thorin pacing at the edge of the tree cover, his expression black and Bilbo felt that knot in his stomach tighten again. He didn’t go to him, instead continuing to walk past with the rest of the Sons, Kíli’s hand in his, ignoring Thorin’s gaze on him and the way it branded him. He didn’t look behind him at Thorin until he felt a hand close tightly around his forearm, stopping him in his tracks and making his heart leap to his throat. He looked around to see Thorin, eyes glittering; he swallowed.

“Go catch up with the others, Kíli,” he said, hoping he sounded unconcerned. Kíli looked at him for a moment with wide eyes before doing as Bilbo said, scampering off to join his mother and sister and glancing back with a vaguely worried look on his face. The group of Sons stopped, though Bilbo gestured that they should continue on. It wasn’t safe to be stopping out in the open.

When they were moving Bilbo turned to face Thorin, who was still holding his arm tight enough to leave bruises. Bilbo let out a breath at the dangerous glint in Thorin’s eyes, the scowl on his face.

“What is it, Thorin?” he asked briskly, grateful when his voice was steady.

Thorin’s brows knitted together even closer at that.

“One of them is going to betray me.” His voice was rough and gravelly, as if it hadn’t been used for a long time.

“What?” Bilbo was nonplussed.

“My own kin,” Thorin growled. “They’re going to betray me. I know not how, but one of them will.”

Bilbo couldn’t hide the shock and disbelief on his face. He tried to pull his arm away but it was no use; Thorin had him far too tightly so he settled for simply taking a step back.

“Thorin, what are you talking about? They are your _family_ , they would never betray you!” he said indignantly. “Why would you think one of them would betray you?”

Thorin’s grip tightened and his expression darkened, stealing Bilbo’s breath and making his heart race a little faster. “They mourn someone who betrayed us,” he spat. “Tauriel was in league with Smaug and helped him kill your family. She sided with Sauron to try and destroy me. And yet they weep for her.”

Bilbo stared up at Thorin in disbelief. “She was your _friend_ , Thorin,” he said, anger flaring in him. “Whatever she did, it doesn’t wipe out all the good she did. Does her friendship mean nothing to you?” His voice was rising with his temper and he forced himself to quiet it, not wanting to bring down any attention on them.

“Not when it comes at the price of loyalty,” Thorin retorted, his eyes dark. He still hadn’t let go of Bilbo’s hand and now he was stepping closer; Bilbo tried to back away but every step back he took Thorin took one closer.

“And yet you forgave me!” Bilbo cried out. What was Thorin thinking? How could he say these things? “I betrayed you all and yet here we are.”

Thorin looked away. “You were different.”

“How so?” Bilbo demanded fiercely, forcing Thorin to look him in the eye. They still glittered dangerously but there was an uncertainty to his scowl, a hint of reluctance in the set of his jaw.

“You were forced to. She chose her own path.”

Bilbo looked away from Thorin, unable to look at him. He was afraid he couldn’t hide the swirling tide of emotion from showing in his eyes – his fear and his anger and in that moment, his disgust. He didn’t want to be near Thorin at that moment, and it broke his heart that he felt that way.

“She’s _dead_ , Thorin,” he said sharply. “At least have some respect, if you can’t feel sorry.”

Thorin’s gaze turned piercing and then he released Bilbo, stepping backwards. He didn’t say anything and nor did he look away – until he clenched his fists at his side and turned and walked away. Bilbo let him go, his heart still pumping wildly and breathing heavy, before following him back to the city. He kept his distance from him but made sure to keep an eye on their surroundings – with Thorin acting like he was, he wasn’t even sure if the Son was paying attention at all.

Bilbo wished he knew what was on his mind, but Thorin wouldn’t tell him. Even later that evening, he set aside the resentment that was starting to sit heavy in his stomach and tried to talk to him in the privacy of their chamber, but Thorin remained stubbornly silent and only held onto him, his hands carding through Bilbo’s curls. Bilbo’s throat closed up and he escaped, pulling away under the pretence of needing a drink of water, but instead he locked himself in his own chamber, fighting down the fear that was rising up in him.

Why was Thorin behaving like this? Why was he refusing to talk to him? He wished he understood.

As the night drew on and his breath started to come in little puffs of fog in the cold stone room around him, Bilbo looked at his hands and wondered what was happening to Thorin, and what in Arda he could do about it.

 

*

 

Once again they fell into a period of restless quiet. They didn’t venture out from the hideout and Théoden assured them they were still safe in his tunnels; they holed themselves up, Théoden and his family bringing supplies of food and firewood. Winter was truly upon them now and the fires had to be kept lit at all times. It meant the rooms were always smoky and left black soot on Bilbo’s white robes, and he found himself missing the Shire with a permanent physical ache. The others all did their best to distract him whenever he voiced his longing to go back, but it was hard for all of them. At least Bilbo _had_ somewhere else to go, if he chose to; the Sons had only these smoky, dusty, freezing cold tunnels.

Bilbo felt as if he was going mad, sitting there in the tunnels, day after day; he tried to talk to Thorin about deciding on a plan, on doing _something, anything,_ but every time he tried Thorin refused to talk to him, would cut him off and walk away, leaving Bilbo frustrated and restless. The rest of the Sons were beginning to grow restless too – Dwalin would pace endlessly, his boots wearing the flagstones smooth with his unceasing steps; Dori made infinite cups of tea, fussed and worried over everyone; Ori’s scribbling and drawing became more frantic, his writing like spiders had crawled over the parchment; Kíli became petulant and sullen, confused as to what was happening and upset that his uncle no longer spent time with him. Bilbo did his best to make up for it, but nothing could truly make up for the lack of Thorin’s attention. Kíli looked up to Thorin like the father he’d never known and it was no wonder Thorin’s distance was hitting him hard; as the scowl on Kíli’s little face grew deeper Bilbo worried that whatever was affecting Thorin might soon affect them all. It made him angry.

Bilbo would often sneak up and join Théoden in the inn, just to escape the stifling atmosphere down there in the tunnels. Sometimes Fíli would join him and see Éomer while Bilbo kept a discreet eye on them; after these visits Bilbo thought Thorin would be angry, but he was too wrapped in his thoughts to even notice they’d gone. Only a couple of times had Thorin noticed Bilbo wasn’t there and had been inconsolable until Bilbo was back – and then he’d get angry and Bilbo would do his best to placate him. He would try and argue back, but it was like talking to a stone wall nowadays.

He sat with Ori one afternoon, watching the scribe’s fevered scribbling.

“What are you writing?” Bilbo asked him, smiling at the look on concentration on Ori’s face. Ori seemed surprised at Bilbo’s voice, as if he’d forgotten he was there.

“I’m chronicling it all,” he said, setting his quill down. “All of this. So that even if we don’t make it...they’ll remember what we did, how we tried to stop him.”

Bilbo felt his throat constrict. He wanted to reassure Ori, to tell him that of course they’d all make it, but he couldn’t promise such a thing. He stayed silent, and Ori gave a tight little smile and returned to his writing.

There was a sudden clattering in the corridor all they all stiffened, hurrying out into the tunnel to see what was going on; Bilbo saw the Sons’ hands reach for their weapons.

Éomer was standing there, an apologetic look on his face. Bilbo’s stomach was immediately twisting into tight knots.

“There are guards,” he said, and the Sons drew in a collective breath. “They say they’re just searching but it’s the guards in black and Uncle doesn’t want to risk that they’ll find you. You need to leave, now.”

Balin caught Bilbo’s eye – Thorin was nowhere to be seen – and thanked Éomer. He turned to the others. “We need to clear out. Leave _nothing_ behind which might give a clue as to who we are.”

It was a mad scramble after that as the Sons all packed up their worldly belongings – all their weapons, robes; Bofur’s carvings and Ori’s writing. Bilbo went into the room he shared with Thorin and grabbed all his poisons and herbs, his spare throwing knives and crossbow quarrels. Thorin wasn’t there, and he was just considering where he might be when the door opened and he walked in.

“Thorin,” Bilbo breathed, and Thorin looked at him in surprise, his eyes taking in the pouches on Bilbo’s belt, his spare robes over his arm.

“You’re going somewhere?” His voice was cold.

Bilbo bit back the retort forming on his tongue. “We’re _all_ going. The guards are coming and we need to leave.” Thorin didn’t seem to react to the words, simply stared at Bilbo, his face expressionless. “Thorin, please,” Bilbo said, letting go of his spare cloaks to clasp Thorin’s hand and try and urge him to action. “You need to come with us. We need to _go._ ”

“No.” Thorin pulled away from Bilbo’s grasp.

“No?” Bilbo repeated dumbly. He couldn’t believe this was happening.

“No. I will not run.” He glanced at Bilbo and his blue eyes were dark, dangerous. “You can flee but I will not run from these cowards.”

Anger was rising hot in Bilbo’s belly and he stepped forwards, jabbing a finger at Thorin’s chest furiously. “Stop this. Stop being a _fool_ , Thorin Oakenshield–”

Thorin’s eyes flashed and he grabbed the hand that had risen, holding it tightly and Bilbo couldn’t pull away, his chest rising and falling rapidly at the look on Thorin’s face. “I’m no fool, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo felt as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over him. He hadn’t been _Master Baggins_ for a _long_ time; it hurt that Thorin would use it now. He tried to think of a reply, of a retort or comeback, but his mind was blank. Thorin was still clutching that hand, preventing it from jabbing at his chest again, and Bilbo felt as if he’d been cut from his moorings, drifting out alone on the ocean. He tried to pull himself together but he was at a loss as to what to say, what to do – why had he said _Master Baggins? –_

The door opened sharply and the two of them turned to see Balin standing in the doorway, a sack over his shoulder. He didn’t seem surprised – or at least didn’t show it, if he was.

“We’re leaving now, Thorin,” he said briskly, entering the room and packing Bilbo’s robes and then Thorin’s. Thorin released Bilbo’s hand and Bilbo took a shaky step back.

“I’m not going,” Thorin said, but he sounded mulish, stubborn. Like a spoilt child.

“Yes you are,” Balin said calmly. “There’s no question about it, Thorin. Now we don’t have much time, so gather your weapons and let’s go.”

Thorin didn’t move for a few long seconds, but then he did, spurred on by Balin’s sharp gaze. He headed to the small drawer beside the bed, pulling out a small box that rattled; mechanically he belted on his second sword and stashed his knives. His face was emotionless and Bilbo couldn’t bear it. He turned and fled the room, joining the other Sons and grabbing Fíli and Kíli by a hand each. He focused on appearing unruffled and unworried; a couple of minutes later Thorin and Balin were ready and once again, they said goodbye to one of the few places they were safe.

 

***

 

It was freezing. The cold was bone deep, setting his joints to aching and his teeth to chattering so that he had to clench his jaw so hard it ached too. Not even his fur-lined robes were enough to keep out the icy fingers of the wind.

They had only a small fire, not wanting to bring attention to themselves. They were in an abandoned warehouse in Mirkwood, the walls mostly intact and trees growing out of the ground, breaking through the ceiling high above. At night he could see the stars through the holes the branches had knocked in the timbers.

Mirkwood hadn’t been anyone’s first choice, but when Bilbo had suggested it no one had had any better ideas. The district was mostly left alone, and if the warehouse was searched they’d be able to get away through the trees.

It didn’t help that it was cold as sin in this wooden shack – a poor excuse of a warehouse, he thought spitefully, glaring around at the mildewed wood. Cold as sin and it stank to high hell – the sweet, cloying smell of rotting wood. There was a reason he preferred stone. There was a second floor that covered the front half of the warehouse, the floor still intact though weeds abounded; there was a back room as well, little more than a cupboard in truth, but one wall had rotted away, leaving a gaping hole that looked out into the forest. All sound here seemed to be muted; when they’d first arrived Bilbo had said it felt as if the trees were sleeping. To Thorin it felt as though they were waiting – though for what, he didn’t know. He didn’t voice his thoughts, ridiculous as they were, though judging from the look on the others’ faces it wasn’t just Thorin who felt ill at ease amongst the silent trees.

They’d already been here a night – none of them had truly slept apart from Fíli and Kíli; they’d all been too wired, too keyed up to rest, never mind the fact the cold was so bone-piercingly deep that sleep was little more than a far-off dream. Staying still too long meant your bones felt as if they turned to ice; moving again felt like that ice splintering into a thousand pieces.

He sat apart from the others, which meant he was also removed from the fire. He grit his teeth and stiffened his spine as another shiver threatened to wrack his body; he would not show weakness. He wouldn’t; he _couldn’t_. He was weak enough when he slept, dogged by visions of the Arkenstone that he could no longer shake off, until he woke feeling like the stone was lying on his chest, pressing him into the ground, the cold weight of it crushing his lungs until he couldn’t breathe and his chest caved in.

He closed his eyes and shook off the memory. He couldn’t think of it, couldn’t remember it, or it would haunt him now. It haunted him enough when he slept; he didn’t need it during his waking hours as well.

All the things he’d faced, and he was afraid of shadows.

“Thorin.”

He started at the sound of his name and looked up, ready to growl something at whoever thought to interrupt him, but he paused when he saw Bilbo coming towards him, looking uncertain. Thorin wanted to smooth away that frown on his face, but Bilbo stopped a few feet away from him. Thorin frowned but didn’t say anything, instead admiring the way Bilbo’s hair looked like gold in the glow from the fire.

“Bilbo,” he said. His voice was rough from lack of use. He didn’t look away from Bilbo, keeping their eyes locked together; it was Bilbo who looked away first. He looked almost nervous, and Thorin wondered why.

“It’s too cold here for the children,” he said, and he met Thorin’s gaze again, sticking his chin out in determination. “We’ve no blankets and hardly any food, and Kíli’s going to get sick at this rate. The lad can’t stop shivering.”

Thorin glanced over to the fire, to where he saw his nephew sandwiched between Bofur and Dori, his small frame periodically wracked with tremors that ran through his whole body. Fíli sat next to Balin, not faring much better. He looked away, back to Bilbo.

“What do you propose I do, then?” he asked, a little churlishly. “Their place is with their kin.”

“Their place is somewhere _safe,_ where they won’t freeze to death,” Bilbo retorted and Thorin looked at him, something hot flaring in him.

“Do you think I enjoy seeing them like this?” he asked shortly. “I never wished this life for them.”

“I think you have no notion of what’s truly going on,” was Bilbo’s swift reply. “I think you enjoy sitting over here on your own, brooding and doing nothing to save your own niece and nephew from cold and hunger.” Thorin could feel his fists clenching but he said nothing. Bilbo let out a heavy sigh and for a moment looked drawn, aged; the lines on his face looked deeper. He looked back at Thorin, a pleading look on his face. “I didn’t come here to argue. I want to take them to their mother’s. They’ll be safe with her at the Sapphire.”

Dís. His sister. Yes. They could go and stay with her for a while, no one else knew about her… He shrugged. “If that is what you think best.”

Bilbo’s shoulders seemed to sag, though whether with relief or something else Thorin didn’t know. He didn’t know what Bilbo was thinking any more – any more than he ever had. After all, the Child had lied to him for who knew how long… But he didn’t think about that.

Bilbo was turning from him but before he could walk away Thorin grabbed his hand. It was like ice in his grip; Bilbo paused and seemed to stiffen at Thorin’s touch, but he didn’t shy away. He met Thorin’s gaze.

“Bilbo,” he said, his heart so _full_ – he couldn’t explain it, how much Bilbo made him _feel_ – even with the shadow of the Arkenstone looming over him like a constant storm cloud, it paled in the face of the treasure that was his Bilbo. Bilbo’s eyes widened and then there was something in his eyes – something that looked like _sadness_ before the shutters came down over those green eyes and it was unreadable once more. “I…” he paused, but there was nothing in Bilbo’s eyes. “Never mind,” he said, releasing Bilbo’s hand and turning away.

He didn’t watch as Bilbo gathered Fíli and Kíli up, coaxing them up despite the cold.

“Uncle!”

Kíli’s voice rang out across the wooden warehouse and he froze before turning around. Kíli was looking at him uncertainly, his hand clasped in Fíli’s, whose jaw was clenched against the cold. With stiff legs Thorin forced himself forward, let his niece and nephew hug him and the feel of their small bodies seemed to lift the shadow from him for a moment; just for a moment he felt lighter, the storm cloud dissipating, but as soon as they let go and turned to Bilbo, following him out of the warehouse and into the night outside, it came back, blacker and heavier before and once again he felt as if he couldn’t breathe.

He retreated to his corner away from the others, needing the solitude. He didn’t want to feel their eyes on him, see the judgment on their faces. He grit his teeth against the cold again as he moved away from the fire and began pacing, deciding to keep moving so he didn’t freeze into place. He didn’t notice Dwalin approaching until the other Son was standing in front of him. Thorin looked at him in surprise, but didn’t say anything. Dwalin didn’t turn around – he stood there regarding Thorin, his brow furrowed slightly.

“Come an’ join us by the fire,” he said.

Thorin shook his head. “No.” He resumed his pacing.

“Yer’ll freeze if ye stay over ‘ere,” he said.

“I’m fine,” Thorin said shortly. “I don’t know why Bilbo brought us here anyway.”

Thorin missed the way Dwalin’s frown deepened at that. “Ye know we had no other options,” he said. “‘E’s doing his best for us.”

Thorin felt his lip curl briefly even as he kept up his pacing. If he kept moving, perhaps he could outrun the shadow – or at least tire it out so it was weaker tonight. “Yes, yes, I know,” he said shortly. He glanced up at Dwalin sharply, his gaze flicking over to where the others were sitting; he noticed them look hurriedly away. “I know you’re only still here because of him. You follow him more than me.” His gaze returned to Dwalin, whose mouth was open.

“Ye must be joking,” he said, shaking his head. “We follow ye because we believe in ye. We trust ye, Thorin. No’ just because of Bilbo.”

Thorin snorted. “He’s playing us all,” he muttered. “Me most of all, and yet I can’t help myself from letting him.” He thought of Bilbo, his skin like marble, his emerald eyes.

“Can ye no’ hear yerself?” Dwalin asked; Thorin looked at him, anger flaring in him at the disbelief in Dwalin’s voice. “Do ye no’ realise what yer saying?” He sounded aghast.

“You know nothing, Dwalin,” he said coldly, pausing in his pacing. He felt the shadow catch up, its cold fingers settling around his neck and he shut his eyes, shaking his head.

“I think I know enough,” Dwalin said. “I know enough to know yer not yerself. The Thorin I know would never doubt the loyalty of his kin.”

Thorin clenched his fists at his side. “Leave me,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Aye,” Dwalin muttered behind him. “As you wish.”

“I do wish.”

Dwalin bowed his head and turned away, heading back to the others. Thorin turned too, facing the wooden wall and trying to ignore the weight pressing down on him, crushing him to the ground. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it at bay; one of these days, he was sure, eventually it would overcome him.

Sometimes, he wasn’t sure that it hadn’t already.

 

*

 

Bilbo returned sometime around midnight, appearing so silently in the warehouse that no one noticed he was even there until he spoke.

“The children are safe with Dís,” he said and everyone jumped and turned to face him. Thorin turned too, ignoring the mutterings and voices of the others. Bilbo seemed to be looking at him too, but he looked away when he caught Thorin’s eye.

It was still too cold and dangerous for them all to sleep – they’d have to sort out a watch rota tomorrow. Ori was currently sleeping with his head on Dwalin’s shoulder, and Bifur was lying next to Bofur, close to the fire. Thorin could feel his eyes begin to itch with tiredness, but he was determined not to sleep. The longer he left it before he slept, the longer before he’d have the nightmare again.

Bilbo approached him a little later, holding something in his hands. Thorin let him come, let him sit beside him on the wooden crate he’d commandeered. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just stared at whatever it was he was holding – it was wrapped in cloth and smelt good; Thorin couldn’t stop his stomach from gurgling at the smell of it. Bilbo smiled at that and looked up at him.

“I brought you some food from your sister,” he said softly. He pressed the cloth into Thorin’s hands and Thorin hastily unwrapped it, revealing a small loaf of crusty bread still warm from the oven, a small round pat of butter and some soft cheese. He started eating, his stomach making appreciative noises.

“You’ve eaten?” he asked, knowing Bilbo’s appetite. Bilbo smiled.

“I did. She wouldn’t let me leave without giving me something.”

“Good.” Thorin continued eating and Bilbo stayed sitting beside him. He was worrying the end of his sleeves and when he was done eating Thorin placed one of his hands over Bilbo’s, stopping the nervous movement. Bilbo looked up at him again, his lips parted as if he was going to say something, and Thorin was tempted to claim his lips in a kiss then. But the others were there, no doubt watching them; Bilbo was his, not theirs.

“Won’t you come and rest by the fire?” Bilbo asked, his voice quiet, breaking into Thorin’s thoughts. “You’ll freeze over here.”

“No,” Thorin said, turning away. “I’m fine. You go and stay in the warmth, Bilbo.”

Bilbo didn’t move away; instead his hands clutched at Thorin’s. “Please,” he whispered, his hands rubbing at Thorin’s in an attempt to warm them. Now that Bilbo’s warm ones were on his, Thorin realised quite how cold his hands were. “Please, Thorin, just for a little while.”

Thorin said nothing, letting Bilbo continue holding his hands. It felt as if they’d been turned to ice and now the ice was melting, giving him feeling in his fingers again – though it was pins and needles, painful.

“Come, Thorin,” Bilbo urged again, releasing a hand and tugging on the other one. Thorin looked at him, saw the pleading expression on his face. He let Bilbo pull him to his feet.

“Just a while,” he said shortly. “I won’t sleep.”

“Alright,” Bilbo agreed, leading Thorin to the fire. The others were all looking politely away and Bilbo settled in a spot near the fire, just slightly away from the others. Thorin was pleased and sat next to Bilbo, letting him pull him down so they were lying down. Thorin could feel the heat of the fire on his back and his entire body seemed to be thawing slowly. He felt a shiver run through him as the ice left his veins.

Bilbo’s hands were running through his hair and on instinct Thorin closed his eyes, leaning closer into that touch. He felt a small warm thumb touch his cheek, trace the shell of his ear; he smiled at the jolt of warmth it sent through him.

“If you’re not careful I’ll have to have you right here,” he said without opening his eyes, feeling strangely at ease. Bilbo gave a small hum of amusement.

“Perhaps wait ‘til we’re somewhere a little warmer,” he replied, his breath ghosting over Thorin’s ear. Thorin caught one of Bilbo’s hands, holding it tightly and his thumb making small circular motions on his soft skin. The feel of his warmth against Thorin’s icy cold skin was soothing.

“When this is all over, I want us to be together,” Thorin murmured. Bilbo’s hand in his stiffened at his words, just for a moment,, but then he gave a light squeeze.

“Let’s just focus on getting through this first,” he whispered, his other hand brushing softly through Thorin’s hair and Thorin’s eyes fluttered closed of their own volition before he forced them open. Maker, he was tired; he couldn’t afford to close his eyes, not even for a second.

“I can’t be apart from you,” he said quietly, his voice coloured with conviction. Of that much he was certain. “I promised I’d never leave you, Bilbo, and it still stands - I can’t let you go. We _will_ be together.” He clutched Bilbo’s hand tighter, sudden desperation clawing at his suddenly tight throat, but the feel of Bilbo’s gentle hands calmed him and he took a deep breath, willing his heart to stop thudding so painfully.

“I know,” was all Bilbo said. “Rest, Thorin.” Obediently Thorin settled, pulling Bilbo closer to him even as a small knot of worry sank heavy in his stomach.

What a treasure Bilbo was.

 _His_ treasure.

A sudden chill travelled down his spine and he snapped his eyes open, his grip on Bilbo’s hand tightening a fraction as the shadow crept ever closer.

“I won’t sleep,” he said again, fearful. “Don’t let me sleep.”

Bilbo didn’t say anything, only kept up his gentle stroking through Thorin’s tangled locks. It was so warm here, so comfortable here next to Bilbo, his body close to Thorin’s and the sound of his breathing was soothing. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to let his eyes have a little rest after all; so long as he didn’t sleep, the shadow couldn’t catch him…

He lay there for a while, Bilbo’s body soft and warm beside him; but after a while he seemed to turn cold. Thorin opened his eyes, his hands reaching out blindly in the sudden darkness – when had the fire gone out? Why were the others so silent? Bilbo felt like stone, smooth and cold as marble; it was silent as a tomb there, the air still and musty, as if nothing had disturbed it for a hundred years. He shook Bilbo, his numb fingers slipping on his skin, but Bilbo didn’t move – he was frozen in place, unmoving. Thorin still couldn’t see anything, the darkness all-encompassing and pressing down around him.

“Bilbo?” he called, fear burning in his throat. “Bilbo, wake up.” But still Bilbo didn’t move.

He sat up, his eyes peering around uselessly. Where in Mahal’s name were the others?

He whipped around as he heard a noise behind him; it was little more than a whisper, something scratching on the floor.

“Who’s there?” he asked the darkness, not letting his fear show in his voice. His limbs felt like ice as he pulled himself to his feet. “Dwalin? Balin? Is that you?”

There was another whisper, though Thorin couldn’t make out the words. It seemed to be growing louder, turning into a snake-like hissing that seemed to rush at him, making him cry out and raise his hands to defend himself.

“Thorin?”

He span around at the sound of Bilbo’s voice.

Bilbo was standing a little way away from him. Thorin wasn’t sure how he could see him when the rest of the room was in utter darkness.

“Bilbo,” he said, his breath rushing out of him. He started to move towards him, his heart thudding painfully and relief making his frozen fingers tingle painfully, but as he moved that hissing whisper started up again and he froze, his hands rising defensively. It swirled around the room, and Thorin thought he could hear someone laughing. It was a cold and cruel laugh.

_I can give you what you want._

He gasped as the phantom voice spoke, full of cruel amusement.

_Watch as it corrupts your heart._

The hissing was growing louder, rushing in his ears and his heartbeat was so fast it was going to burst right out of him, he knew. He looked to Bilbo, but he was gone–

Thorin could feel his knees trembling, the fear too much. “Bilbo,” he called, a choked sob tearing out of him. He fell to his knees, his cloak dragging him down, suddenly heavy. The hissing and the laughter were growing louder, surrounding him; he curled around himself protectively. There was something hard tucked into his cloak, near to his heart; with trembling fingers he reached for it, feeling its cold smooth surface, like glass.

In his hand was the Arkenstone.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no–”

“Thorin!”

Someone was shaking him and his eyes flew open. Bilbo was kneeling over him, his eyes full of concern, and there was the sky – grey and starless, visible through the holes in the roof; there was the fire, the smoke of it burning his nostrils. He was breathing rapidly, his chest rising and falling and he shut his eyes, nausea rising in him. He pushed himself to his feet, away from Bilbo’s worried hands.

He felt his cloak – there was no weight to it, nothing nestling against his heart besides his weapons. He let out a heavy breath.

“Thorin, are you alright?” Bilbo was asking, getting to his feet.

“You shouldn’t have let me sleep,” Thorin said curtly, moving away.

“Thorin–”

“You shouldn’t have let me sleep,” he said again, anger in his voice, and Bilbo didn’t protest as he moved back to the corner and his wooden crate. Thorin didn’t look back; he couldn’t let them see the anguish on his face, the tears that were escaping despite his best efforts. They couldn’t see how utterly terrified he was.

Why did it haunt him so? Why could he not sleep without the Arkenstone making its way into his dreams – and it felt so real, _so_ real. It scared him how real it had felt – as if he’d really been holding the stone between his hands. He’d felt that glassy coldness as if it had truly been there.

He knew that stone had played its part in the madness of his father and grandfather. It was in no small part down to the stone that they were dead and Thorin dispossessed and homeless. He wanted nothing to do with it – and yet still it dogged him. He swallowed down the bitterness in him that whispered that with the Arkenstone he could be rich again, powerful once more…

That power and wealth would come at too high a price. Thorin knew if he were to have the stone in his possession again, it would send him mad like his father and grandfather before him.

What if he was _already_ mad? Was it possible that even the ghost of the Arkenstone was sending him spiralling into the same madness his ancestors suffered from? He clenched his fists at his side and breathed in and out sharply – it couldn’t be, he couldn’t be mad. He could still function, he didn’t see things when he was awake.

He had to stop this nonsense. The more he feared it, the stronger it would be.

He stood and strode purposefully back to the fire, his face set in a scowl as he looked at each Son in turn, holding their gaze.

“Since it looks as if we’ll be here for a while, we’ll need a watch rota. All day, all night. We won’t let ourselves be caught unawares in this rotting wooden shithole.  Am I understood?”

“Aye,” the others murmured and Thorin gave a short nod.

“Dwalin, you take the first watch. You’ll be relieved at midday.”

Dwalin got to his feet, his eyes not leaving Thorin. He stood for a moment and Thorin stared back, daring him to say something, to disobey him, but he didn’t. He turned and headed to the rickety set of steps up to the second floor. Thorin watched him go, back stiff and eyes fixed straight ahead of him.

“Master Thorin, he’ll freeze up there on his own without the fire,” Ori piped up, worry in his voice. Thorin looked at him and the younger Son bit his lip but didn’t look away.

“Then you’re welcome to join him, Master Ori,” he said. Ori said nothing and Thorin looked at them all a moment longer. “If anybody is unsatisfied with my decisions, they are free to leave at any time,” he said shortly and turned away.

“This is madness,” Bofur said and Thorin paused, turning back. Bofur had risen and the look on his face made anger flare in Thorin.

“Madness,” he let out a humourless laugh, the comment cutting too close to the bone. “How so, Master Bofur?”

“You – you’re condemning us all to die ‘ere from cold or starvation, whichever gets us first. An’ you sit there in your corner, doing nothin’ and acceptin’ it as your fate. Well, I don’t mean to sit ‘ere while you brood–”

“I know what you mean to do,” Thorin interrupted, another black chuckle escaping him. He stepped closer to Bofur, his fists clenched at his side. “You think I don’t see the way you watch him? How you follow him with your eyes when you think nobody’s looking?” He was close to Bofur now and the toy-maker shrunk back just an inch, but it was enough. Thorin had ignored his suspicions but enough was enough – Bofur would remember his place. “That’s as close as you’ll ever get, Master Bofur. Bilbo is mine.”

Bofur’s brown eyes were wide but at Thorin’s words they crinkled with something close to disgust and Thorin drew back.

“You’re mad,” Bofur breathed and Thorin clenched his jaw, his eyes fixed on Bofur’s and glittering dangerously. “You’re mad, seeing things as ain’t there.” Bofur shook his head, his mouth curling, and Thorin felt the rising urge to strike him. “Mayhap you’re righ’, an’ maybe we _will_ go.”

“Go then,” Thorin spat. “Go, and Mahal curse you, you faithless rat.”

“Thorin!” That was Bilbo, and the next thing he knew Bilbo was before him, his hands on his arm but Thorin shook him off. “Thorin, please, stop this–”

“Or maybe we’ll stay,” Bofur said, his eyes still fixed on Thorin’s. “Someone’s got to save him from you.”

Thorin rushed him, a snarl tearing from his throat, but before he could pull his blade he was stopped by cold metal on his inner thigh and he froze, his breath coming short and sharp. Bilbo was in front of him, his expression dangerous and angry, his blade icy where it rested against Thorin’s already chilled leg. He looked back at Bofur, his breathing heavy; he spat and turned away, leaving them to watch him go. Bilbo didn’t come after him.

He headed to the second room, the cold hitting him like a physical force and he gasped at the shock of it. He breathed in the icy air but it did nothing to abate the fury still burning through him, hot and sharp as a knife.

Bilbo was his and his alone. Bofur had no right to speak of him like that.

With an angry grunt he stuck his sword into the soft rotting wood of the wall, the blade sinking deep, cutting through the damp fibres like butter.

Bilbo was _his._

***

 

Bilbo watched Thorin go, his hands trembling so much he nearly dropped his knife and he quickly sheathed it, trying to calm his racing heart.

He turned to Bofur. “You shouldn’t antagonise him like that,” he said shortly.

Bofur snorted. “You shouldn’t stand up for him all the time. I know you love him but he’s wrong.”

“He’s _sick_ ,” Bilbo hissed, and Bofur’s eyes widened at the vehemence in Bilbo’s voice. “I don’t know what it is, but he’s sick and I don’t know how to help him. There’s something – something in his mind–” He bit his lip before it could tremble. “You shouldn’t antagonise him,” he said again.

“And when he hurts you?” Bofur demanded, catching Bilbo’s arm. They heard a loud thud and a growl from where Thorin was and Bilbo flinched, turning from Bofur. “When he finally loses it and hurts you? Because you know he will, Bilbo, don’t pretend you can’t see it.”

Bilbo pulled his arm free. “I’m hoping to save him before it reaches that point,” he said quietly. He looked to the others. “We need food and blankets. We’ll die out here without them. I’d go, but…” he trailed off. If he went and Thorin came back to find him gone, he didn’t want to think about what he might say or do in his anger. It was a double-edged sword Bilbo found himself playing with, and he had to play it carefully: he was safe from Thorin’s anger, it seemed, but it was usually because of him that Thorin became angry. When he was absent, or when Thorin thought he was being insulted. Or, Yavanna forbid, when Thorin was reminded that Bilbo wasn’t his possession.

He breathed in deeply and glanced around again, doing his best to smile.

“I can’t go, but perhaps one of you could go to the Shire. Lobelia will help you. Just don’t let her find out – find out about me.”

“I’ll go,” Balin said, getting slowly to his feet. The cold had aged him and he grimaced as he forced his frozen joints to work again. “I know the lass. I’ll get us what we need.” He glanced over to the doorway to the other room where Thorin was. “Probably no use asking him now, the state he’s in. I’ll let you handle him, Bilbo.”

He clapped a hand to Bilbo’s shoulder and Bilbo nodded and swallowed, his throat burning. Balin pulled up his hood so his kind old face was in shadow and headed to the door. He nodded back at them and slipped out into the morning; his dark cloak was soon swallowed by the trees.

Thorin didn’t join them at midday, still brooding in the freezing antechamber, Bilbo supposed; Bofur shrugged and offered to take the next watch with Bifur. The two of them went up to relieve Dwalin, who staggered downstairs looking haggard, his scowl frozen on his face.

“It’s bloody cold up there,” he grumbled. He glanced over to Thorin’s corner, and raised an eyebrow when he saw it was unoccupied. “‘E’s still sulking then?” he asked, nodding his head over towards the second room.

“So it appears,” Bilbo nodded, turning and making his way to Thorin’s corner, staring at the wall and tugging at his lip. He didn’t know what to do. He felt utterly out of his depth.

He didn’t know how to help Thorin, but he knew he _needed_ to know. He knew Thorin was suffering, was breaking before his very eyes, but he didn’t know what he was supposed to do to stop it. He was terrified at how possessive Thorin could be, how he staked his claim over him thoughtlessly, unkindly, and not at all like the Thorin he’d known that night in the Shire, the Thorin who’d held him tearfully and kissed him gently the night he’d returned to him. The Thorin who’d loved him and made him feel invincible. Recently Thorin’s attentions had been reverent, as if Bilbo was some item to be worshipped, and then they’d become fierce – Thorin’s way of marking him, claiming him. It surely wasn’t _love_ there. It broke his heart to think it.

He thought of the night before, of how gentle and how like the old Thorin he’d seemed before he fell asleep. Bilbo had flushed at Thorin’s words, his smile, and for a moment he’d almost _wanted_ him to take him there and then. It had made him giddy with hope that his Thorin was still in there, and not buried as deeply as he’d feared.

But evidently, he was wrong. His Thorin was somewhere inside this new Thorin and Bilbo was at a loss as to how to get him back.

Would Thorin truly hurt him, as Bofur suggested? He shuddered at the thought. A few months ago he’d have said no without a doubt, but now… now he wasn’t so sure. His neck throbbed dully at the memory of the marks Thorin had left on him and he screwed his eyes shut as he remembered Smaug doing the same thing.

He turned back to others, needing something to distract himself with.

“I’m going to get some more firewood,” he said. “I’ll be just outside.”

He prayed to Yavanna that he’d have enough and was back before Thorin came out of hiding. He didn’t want anyone else to suffer because of him.

Balin was back by nightfall, bringing with him a sack of blankets, loaves of bread, dried meats and hard cheese. Bilbo was on watch duty when he returned and Bofur brought him up some food and a blanket. Bilbo took them gratefully, returning to looking out over the silent forest. He started when Bofur sat beside him – he hadn’t realised he was still there.

Unconsciously Bilbo found the little wooden acorn that still resided in his pouch. He held it out to Bofur, and the Son smiled.

“You still have it.”

“Of course,” Bilbo said, rubbing his thumb over the soft wood. “It was my only clue to what had happened in the days after I fell.”

Bofur didn’t say anything to that and for a long moment they sat in silence, Bilbo grateful for Bofur’s presence. It was too easy to slip into dark thoughts when he was by himself.

“You should get some sleep while you can,” he said, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

“Thorin still refuses to come back,” Bofur said quietly. Bilbo froze and glanced up at Bofur.

“Refuses?”

“Balin tried to take him food and a blanket, but he wouldn’t take them.”

Bilbo looked down. “I don’t know what to do, Bofur,” he whispered. “It’s my fault, I started this–”

“No, you didn’t, this ain’t your fault,” Bofur tried to soothe him but it _was_ , it was Bilbo who’d first woken the spectre of the Arkenstone in Thorin’s mind. Perhaps it wasn’t only his fault, but he’d played his part. Perhaps...perhaps it would be better for Thorin if he _did_ leave. No matter how much Bilbo wanted to help, there was no denying that while Bilbo’s presence was calming to Thorin, it came at the price of making him ever more obsessed. It gave him goose bumps to think of the dark light he sometimes saw in Thorin’s face when he looked at him. His poor dear Thorin, trapped somewhere in the recesses of his own mind.

He said nothing of this to Bofur, however; and halfway through the night when he was relieved by Dori he could hear Thorin pacing in the second room, muttering under his breath. He didn’t go to him and instead huddled close to the fire, closing his eyes and hoping sleep would come quickly so that he wouldn’t have to listen to the man he loved losing himself to something he couldn’t stop.

But even the next day Thorin was still on his own; he slashed with his sword at a tree, dodging and hacking with a fierce fury on his face as if it was Smaug himself he was fighting. He sat alone as he sharpened his sword, refusing the food Dwalin took him.

They heard a shout from Ori on watch as the afternoon drew in, the weak winter sun starting to dip behind the city already.

“It’s Éowyn!” Ori was saying and Bilbo hurried out to meet her, chivvying her close to the fire.

“You’re frozen,” he said, wrapping a blanket around her. “How did you know where to find us?”

“Fíli told Éomer where you were,” she said. “We’d have come sooner, but it wasn’t safe. I only came today because you need to know something.”

Bilbo felt cold. “What’s happened?” he asked.

Éowyn’s blue eyes were wide. “There’s been a proclamation. It’s everywhere, everyone’s looking for you now–”

“A proclamation?”

They all turned at the sound of Thorin’s voice. He was approaching slowly, a frown furrowing his brow but he seemed...normal.

“Yes,” Éowyn said. “From Sauron.”

Thorin’s frown deepened and he looked away. “What does this proclamation say?” he asked slowly.

“He wants to treat with you. He says if you go to him, if you go to the Lonely Tower alone, he’s willing to negotiate with you. Here.” She held out a piece of paper, folded roughly; Thorin took it with a hand that trembled just a touch. Only enough for Bilbo to notice. He unfolded it and read the lines printed onto the parchment with an air of detachment, his face unreadable.

“I see.” His voice was empty of emotion. Bilbo snatched the paper from him, his heart thudding as he read the words. It was as Éowyn said: Sauron would negotiate if Thorin presented himself at the Lonely Tower, unaccompanied. “Thank you for bringing us this news, Éowyn. Bilbo will see that you get some food and rest.” Thorin seemed emotionless, unaffected, as he headed back to the second room.

Bilbo shook his head over the paper and looked at Thorin’s retreating back.

“You can’t be thinking of going,” he said loudly and Thorin paused, turning back to meet his gaze. “Tell me you’re not considering it.”

“Of course not,” Thorin said. “I’m not a fool, whatever else I might be.”

And then he was gone, his boots loud on the wooden floor. Bilbo looked back at the page in his hand and tried to calm his breathing. Thorin wouldn’t go. He knew it would be suicidal to do so. Letting out a breath, Bilbo set to making sure Éowyn was fed and warm before asking about her brother and uncle. No harm had come to them despite the fact the guards had found the tunnels. Éomer had made them look like a simple overflow warehouse, and the guards had gone on their way. Bilbo was relieved they were safe; he didn’t think he could bear it if something had happened to them.

Éowyn left then, Bilbo taking her as far as the tunnels in the Greenwood to make sure she was safe; when he returned Thorin was still sitting silently in his corner. The others were asleep, besides Óin and Glóin on watch upstairs. He steeled himself and headed towards Thorin, holding a spare blanket.

As he approached Thorin span around and grabbed at him, making Bilbo flinch. Thorin released him slowly, his eyes not leaving Bilbo’s face.

“I thought you might be cold,” he said, holding out the blanket. Thorin glanced at it, his gaze returning to Bilbo. “Will you not come and sleep by the fire?” Bilbo asked, pleading.

“No,” Thorin said. “You know I cannot sleep. You know what happens when I do.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo started, stepping closer but then Thorin’s hand was on his wrist again, his other hand tight around his upper arm and he pulled Bilbo around as if he weighed nothing. Bilbo’s breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering away in his chest as he looked up at Thorin, a fevered glint in his eye.

“Can you not see what’s happening to me?” Thorin asked, his voice hoarse. “What you do to me?”

Bilbo swallowed thickly, words failing him. He stared up at Thorin, the wall cold and damp at his back. Thorin didn’t seem to require an answer, he pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s curls and released him.

“Not even you can keep it away,” he said, turning his face. His voice was so sad, so defeated. “Don’t make me sleep. I cannot bear it.”

“Alright,” Bilbo whispered, rubbing at his wrist where he could still feel the echo of Thorin’s grip. Thorin turned to him again, a small smile on his face and for a moment Bilbo thought he could see his Thorin there, his gentle, kind, _good_ Thorin.

“Go and rest,” Thorin said. Bilbo did as Thorin said, his heart still pounding in his chest even as his mind whirled. He didn’t sleep for a long while, and all that while he was certain that neither did Thorin. He looked awful the next day: the dark shadows under his eyes gave him a sunken look, as if he were a hundred years old; his mouth was set in a grim line and the lines of his face were deeper. He needed to sleep, desperately – if anything else, he was going to make himself sick. It had been two nights since he’d last slept.

Bilbo made them stew for dinner that night, made from what he could salvage from the nearby huts and scavenge in the forest. It was meagre and watery, but with some of the herbs that grew near the trees it was tasty. Before he took Thorin his bowl, he surreptitiously added a few drops of poppy milk; he hoped the other flavours would mask the taste of it. He hoped Thorin would forgive him if he ever found out he’d laced his food.

He headed over to the little room, Thorin’s bowl clutched between his cold hands. He paused at the sight of the empty room.

“Thorin?” he called, stepping through the hole in the wall out into the forest, but Thorin wasn’t with his weapons hacking at a tree, or sitting cleaning his sword. Bilbo felt his heart begin to thud painfully fast. “Thorin!” he called, louder this time, uncaring of who heard him. There was no answer, no sound of somebody approaching through the trees, no familiar figure standing in the night. Foreboding pressing down heavily on him, Bilbo returned to the warehouse.

“Thorin’s not here,” he told the others. “He’s not here or outside.”

“He’s probably gone for a walk,” Dwalin said.

“Who knows what possessed him to do that at a time like this,” Bofur muttered, glancing at Bilbo, who frowned at him. Trying to ignore the fear settling in his stomach he told himself Dwalin was right and ate his own supper.

Thorin still wasn’t back by midnight, and Bilbo truly began to worry now. He couldn’t even remember for sure when Thorin had gone – he couldn’t say when he’d last seen him, beyond their exchange the night before. He could have been gone since even then.

“I’m sure he’s just holed himself up somewhere for the night,” Balin said soothingly. “You know he’s unpredictable at the moment, Bilbo, but he’s not stupid.”

“I know,” Bilbo said, doing his best to feel comforted. But when Thorin still wasn’t back by the morning he was well and truly frightened. By lunchtime a frantic-looking Nori appeared, a piece of paper clutched in his hand. He looked at Bilbo.

“No,” he whispered, knowing exactly what Nori was going to say and dreading hearing the words.

“They’ve got Thorin,” Nori said, holding out the piece of paper. “Sauron’s got him at the Lonely Tower.”

 

*

 

Perhaps it was foolish of him to do it. Perhaps it was the stupidest thing he’d ever done. But Bilbo didn’t even stop to consider or care about that – Thorin was in danger, and Bilbo was going to save him.

Even the others seemed to realise that there was nothing they could say to stop him going. Balin tried to get him to wait, to think of a plan, but what use would a plan be? Plans changed. All Bilbo cared about was getting to the Tower and getting Thorin out.

Bofur had had a pinched look on his face as Bilbo had left and Bilbo had known what he was thinking – that he shouldn’t go, that Thorin didn’t deserve him – but he ignored it and hurried away, making sure he had all his weapons and poisons and not looking back.

Only when he reached the Tower did he stop and realise he might have made a huge mistake. There was no way he could get in there unseen – there were too many guards, both Templars and the cruel guards in black, and the place was crawling with soldiers and nobles. Too many for him to hope to take on, even from a distance.

He perched on the rooftop of a nearby mansion, feeling desperation start to claw at his throat. What if Thorin was hurt? What if he was _dead?_ Bilbo knew Sauron’s _negotiation_ was just a ruse, a ploy to get Thorin there alone – what had he been thinking, going along with it? Bilbo would kill him himself, if he wasn’t already dead by the time he got there.

There was a small contingent of guards approaching and he hid behind a chimney stack, hoping they hadn’t seen him. They passed and Bilbo watched them – they were heading towards the Tower. Perhaps if Bilbo could get one alone…

He scurried down from the roof and scooped up a couple of pebbles from the roadside before scaling the wall of the next mansion. Hiding himself behind the large chimney, he threw the pebbles towards the guards. They clattered harmlessly off the last guard’s armour; the man turned quickly and Bilbo could see his scowl beneath the shadow of his helmet.

“Someone’s throwing stones,” he said, stopping and looking back in the direction he thought the stones had come from.

“Go have a look then,” the guard at the front said. “Be quick, mind. We’ve no time for dawdling.”

The guard nodded and headed back towards Bilbo, peering around the street corner.

 _Just a little further,_ Bilbo urged him silently from his perch up on the roof. _Come on. Come and find me._

The guard was looking around, frowning suspiciously, and stepped round the corner and onto the street, searching for the troublemakers who’d dare to throw stones at Sauron’s guards. He carried on, and now he was just a few steps from Bilbo–

A dart to his neck made him stop and reach up to his neck, looking around wildly; he didn’t notice Bilbo leap down from the roof, blade flashing in the weak winter sunshine before he landed and drew it across the guard’s throat. Much good his armour did him.

The man collapsed and Bilbo didn’t hesitate; he pulled off the man’s armour, his fingers struggling with the buckles and straps and he cursed as he fumbled. He managed to get it off the dead man and put it on himself, hoping it wouldn’t be obvious to the other guards if it wasn’t quite right. The helmet was last and he grimaced as the metal came down over his head.

He rolled the body under a carriage and buckled the sword at his side and, taking a deep breath, he strode back the way the guard had come, keeping the helmet pulled low on his face.

“You took your time,” the first guard said as he approached. “Anyone there?” Bilbo shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. “Oh well. We’ve other things to worry about. Come on.” And with that they started walking again, Bilbo taking up the former guard’s position at the rear. His breath was coming quickly and he could feel his heartbeat throughout his body – pounding loudly in his throat, his ears, his fingers tingling with anticipation.

Their group headed towards the gate of the Lonely Tower, manned by multiple guards in black. They didn’t even stop them, and to Bilbo’s amazement and relief they were allowed straight through. Once more Bilbo was inside the Tower.

Now he had to find a way to get away from these guards without raising suspicion. He couldn’t just walk off, but he needed to get away before he got caught up in something he’d have no chance of getting away from. Where would Thorin be? Surely in the dungeons? Or perhaps Sauron was keeping him somewhere else, somewhere hidden? He’d try the dungeon first. But first, he had to follow these guards.

They were heading down a set of stairs that spiralled downwards into the belly of the castle, torches on the walls lighting the way; the dungeons wouldn’t be far away. The staircase seemed to fork a little way ahead; taking a deep breath Bilbo slipped down the left hand staircase as the guards ahead of him took the right. Bilbo dashed forwards, his armour clanking noisily in the stone tunnel. The tunnel seemed to branch off and more than once Bilbo took a turn and headed back after finding himself at a locked gate or hearing approaching guards. Eventually he reached a gate manned by two more guards, a long corridor beyond them with doors on either side. He could hear voices beyond, some whispers, some the ravings of broken men. He’d found the dungeons.

He strode purposefully towards the guards, hoping he didn’t look guilty.

“I’m to bring a message to the prisoner,” he said.

The guards looked at him and then at each other. “You’ll have to be more specific,” one of them said, amusement in his voice. “We’ve lots of prisoners down here.”

Bilbo fixed him with a cold glare. “You know the one.”

“Oh,” the guard said. He looked Bilbo up and down. “If you say so.” Bilbo raised his chin defiantly and the guard unlocked the gate. “He’s right at the end.”

Bilbo nodded and stepped through into the long corridor. He couldn’t help but glance into the cells on either side of him; he just refrained from gasping when he recognised Ghash, the crying Templar they’d gone to see before the feast of Ilúvatar, huddled in the corner of his cell, face bloody. He was crying again.

Bilbo stared straight ahead, not looking around him anymore. Why was Sauron imprisoning Templars? He swallowed down the apprehension rising in him like bile and continued on his way, heading for the very end cell. He passed guards in their armour of jet black, standing immovable, silent outside the cells; he didn’t meet their eyes and they didn’t stop him.

Eventually he reached the end and he peered through the bars of the cell, gripping the metal so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Thorin was lying there, curled under his cloak and turned away from the door. His face was hidden but Bilbo could see the rise and fall of his chest beneath the blue cloak. He felt sick when he saw patches of material that were black with blood.

“Thorin,” he whispered through the bars. “Thorin, it’s me.  What have they done to you?”

Thorin seemed to go still at the sound of his voice and then he sat up and turned – and Bilbo couldn’t stop the cry that escaped him then as he stepped back. The person staring at him from the cell, wrapped in Thorin’s cloak, was not Thorin.

Suddenly he felt hands close around his upper arms and a knife at his throat.

“The Master thought you’d be along,” a voice said nastily, laughing. Bilbo tried to struggle, to pull away, but the knife suddenly pressed into his skin and he hissed at the sharp spike of pain and was immediately still. “That’s better,” the voice crooned. “How about you don’t make a fuss while we just take all your weapons, and we can all have a nice little chat with the master.”

“Where’s Thorin?” Bilbo spat as multiple pairs of hands began to remove his weapons. “What have you done to him? Where is he?”

The guards just laughed, their hands merciless as they searched him. The guard holding him wore black gauntlets and held him tight enough that Bilbo’s arm started to go numb. The Templar guards pulled off the stolen armour and stripped his cloak from him and then pushed him forwards, back towards the staircase. Bilbo let himself be taken, two more guards in black following, his fear for Thorin too great. They led him up a spiralling staircase for what felt like hours, until Bilbo was standing in a very familiar room. He began to shake. The gold had been stripped from the room, the crimson replaced with drapes of black and everywhere, fiery orange eyes stared at him.

A man in black was at the other end of the room, seated in a chair of black marble. Silent guards stood in intervals along the wall, faces hidden beneath their jet-black helmets. The guards pushed Bilbo towards the man at the end of the room, his face covered by a mask of ebony porcelain, and Bilbo could do nothing except stumble towards him. He thought he might be sick but he forced down the fear he could feel threatening to spill from him.

“Mister Baggins,” the man said, his voice raspy and cold. “What an _honour._ ” He waved a hand and the guards holding him loosened their grip ever so slightly – enough that all the blood came rushing back into his numb arm painfully. “You’ve met my Nazgûl guards. I do hope they’ve been accommodating.” He laughed behind the expressionless mask.

Bilbo stood straight, despite the hands that still held him.

“Where is he?” he asked, grateful that his voice didn’t break. “I don’t know what you want from him, but he can’t give it to you. Let him go.”

The man’s face didn’t move, the mask hiding any expression he might have had. “Who said I want anything from him?” he asked, and his voice was amused. “I only want to end the bloodshed. Give him back what he wants.”

“You will destroy him,” Bilbo hissed at him, hatred burning through his entire body.

Sauron didn’t say anything to that, only raised a hand.

“You came to save him,” he said slowly. “Well, here he is. Not dead.” He waved his hand, encased in a black silk glove, and a door opened to Bilbo’s left and two guards walked in, each flanking Thorin. Bilbo’s heart stopped – the guards were holding him up more than flanking him. Thorin’s face was bruised, his hair matted with blood, and his shirt was covered in rusty brown. On his side was a patch of sticky wet redness. He had his eyes closed, his bare feet tripping over the crimson carpet.

“Thorin,” Bilbo whispered and tried to struggle, desperately trying to get free; Thorin’s eyes opened at the sound of Bilbo’s voice and he blinked blearily.

“Let him go,” Sauron said mildly and the hands holding Bilbo loosened; he broke free and rushed across the room towards Thorin, catching him as his guards let go and Thorin fell forwards. Bilbo held him as Thorin’s eyes focused on him, a confused frown on his face as he blinked at him.

“Bilbo?” he asked, his voice hoarse and his hand coming up to stroke Bilbo’s cheek, as if he couldn’t believe Bilbo was there.

“It’s me,” he said, holding the hand that cupped his cheek. “It’s me, Thorin, I’m here.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No. You can’t be here. What are you doing here?” He was looking at Bilbo with fear in his eyes, his voice growing louder and he was shaking his head in a frenzy. “Why did you come here?”

“Why did _you_ come here?” Bilbo retorted, his fear making him impatient, angry. “What were you thinking, coming here alone?”

“It’s me he wants,” Thorin said. “Get away, Bilbo, he’ll let you go–”

“I don’t think I will, actually,” Sauron’s voice said behind them and Bilbo and Thorin both looked around, pulled back to reality. Sauron was standing now, descending the steps from his marble chair. His gloved hands were rubbing together, the silk whispering ominously. “Touching as this is, I think there’s somebody else I want you to meet, Master Baggins, since you’re here.”

“Let him go,” Thorin said, his ruined voice little more than a whisper. His breathing was laboured and rattled in his chest. “Please, let him go.”

Sauron said nothing and instead gestured to one of the guards at the door. “Bring the Lieutenant, if you please.”

Bilbo felt his blood turn cold in his veins. He turned away from Sauron, his heart beating fast. He tightened his hold on Thorin as the Son began to sag, the strain of holding himself up too much for his broken body. The door opened again and the guard returned, but this time there were two sets of footsteps. Bilbo screwed his eyes shut and didn’t look round – he couldn’t bring himself to look.

“I believe my Lieutenant was once known to you,” Sauron said, amusement in his voice. A guard grabbed Bilbo’s chin and turned him to face Sauron and there, beside him, was the man who’d once been Beregond, the blue eyes in that pale scarred face looking at him with an unreadable expression.

Bilbo couldn’t have looked away, even if he hadn’t had a guard keeping his face turned towards them. Beregond’s eyes seemed to be boring into him and he was frozen in place, feeling once again like the short, snub-nosed child he’d been in the face of Beregond’s youthful beauty.

“How?” was all Bilbo could say, the only word he could force out. His lungs seemed to have stopped working. “How?”

“How did I know?” Sauron said, “Or how is he alive?” He stood behind Beregond, his gloved hand resting on his shoulder. “Smaug sent him to me, saved from the flames, and he told me everything about his past. Including you, Master Baggins. He told me you were close, once upon a time, until you let him die.”

“No,” Bilbo whispered, his lips numb. “No, I didn’t–”

“You left me there,” Beregond spoke and Bilbo could feel his grip on reality fading, his control failing. “You did nothing to save me and you left me for dead.”

“I didn’t,” Bilbo said, his voice still hoarse but growing stronger as the injustice of it stung. “I searched for you, I was coming to save you but I couldn’t reach you in time – it wasn’t my fault – I had to face your family and tell them–”

“Tell them how you managed to survive while their son died,” Beregond said mockingly and Bilbo felt _anger._

“I mourned for you, Beregond,” he said, his voice catching. Thorin was a dead weight in his arms and the guard’s grip on his chin was hurting, so he pulled away, jerking his chin out from the guard’s hand. He felt Thorin’s grip on him tighten just a fraction and he looked back up at the man in front of him, the man who shared a name but little else with his old friend. “I mourned for you for _years_ , and I blamed myself for your death. But it wasn’t my fault, it wasn’t my fault and you know it.” Beregond’s eyes were burning and the scarred face had twisted with anger, giving him the look of some fey creature, from another world. “You know I hadn’t even wanted to go to the port that day. And I won’t keep carrying that guilt inside of me anymore, Beregond, I won’t.”

Beregond’s face was furious and he looked as if he wanted to strike him. Bilbo looked away from him, instead looking into Thorin’s blue eyes, filled with fear but so much love and he smiled. “My ghost is no more,” he said quietly, and Thorin pressed their foreheads together, his breathing laboured and shaky even as he held Bilbo tighter.

But the next thing he knew Thorin was being torn out of his arms, pulled away by two guards in black and Bilbo was being held by another two and no amount of twisting or wriggling would get him free. Thorin was too weak to resist and Bilbo could see his breath coming short and sharp as that patch of blood on his side grew ever larger.

“Let’s not forget why we’re here,” Sauron said and Bilbo looked at him furiously, his blank mask of a face seeming to mock him. He turned to Thorin. “Have you changed your mind, Master Oakenshield?”

Thorin raised his head slowly, looking into the eyes that were all they could see of Sauron, and spat at the man’s feet. “Never.”

Sauron didn’t react. “Very well then,” he said coldly. “We’ll see if this will help you make the right decision. Beregond, if you will?”

Beregond turned, his face once more expressionless, and headed for a box Bilbo hadn’t noticed before. He unlocked it with a key he wore around his neck and reached inside; with his back to them Bilbo couldn’t see what he was holding. The two guards holding Thorin forced him forwards towards Beregond and pushed him down to his knees; Thorin let out a grunt of pain and Bilbo could see him clench his jaw against the sound. Beregond turned and Bilbo felt cold as he recognised what he was carrying.

Any physical pain, any torture or injury inflicted on Thorin was better than the hell they put him through with this. Thorin was used to physical pain, could brush it off easily, but this madness was breaking him. He looked up at Beregond and Bilbo saw his entire body go still as death as he recognised the Arkenstone.

“I don’t want it,” he said, sounding strangled. The guards dragged him to his feet and Beregond pressed it into his hands, keeping them clenched around the stone so that Thorin couldn’t push it away.

“I think you do,” Sauron said, his voice soft as his silk gloves. “I think this is what you want more than anything in the whole world.”

“I don’t,” Thorin said, nearly sobbing and Bilbo could feel his heart cracking in his chest. “I don’t want it, I don’t–”

“You were a great man, Thorin Oakenshield. I can make you great again, and with this stone...none would be your equal. You’d be second only to me. Tell me you don’t want that.” He was close to Thorin now, his gloved hand cupping Thorin’s cheek.

“I don’t,” Thorin said, but this time it was little more than a whisper.

“You don’t have to lie to yourself anymore, Thorin,” Sauron said, cajoling. “All you have to do is join me.”

“Thorin, no!” Bilbo shouted, the rest of his words cut off by the guard’s leather-clad hand on his mouth. Bilbo tried to bite him but his gauntlet was too thick and it made no difference.

“Ah,” Sauron said, laughter in his voice. “You know he wants the stone for himself, Thorin. He betrayed you once before, did he not? He’s using you to get the stone, just as he used you to save himself.”

Beregond had stood back and the guards released Thorin, leaving him standing there in his bloodied clothes, the Arkenstone in his trembling hands. Bilbo could see how they shook with the weight of it, could see how Thorin’s eyes were fixed on the glowing gem as if mesmerised. He wrenched himself free from the guard and this time the guard let him go; Bilbo ran to Thorin again, but this time Thorin turned from him.

“Thorin,” he said desperately. “Stop, please, Thorin, this isn’t you, this isn’t you–”

“He’s lying, Thorin,” Sauron said, watching Bilbo’s attempt to save Thorin from himself with amusement.

“Listen to me,” Bilbo said fiercely, forcing Thorin to look at him and nearly backing away at the fierce anger in Thorin’s eyes, the Arkenstone’s unearthly light reflected in them, but he forced himself on. “This stone is cursed, Thorin, it killed your father and grandfather, it’ll kill you too–”

“They died of foolishness, not from the Arkenstone,” Sauron said and Bilbo only just refrained from making an angry retort at him.

“I won’t let it take you from me,” he whispered and tried to push the Arkenstone from Thorin’s grip so it fell to the ground, but before he even touched the stone Thorin’s hand came up to stop his with surprising strength, his grip like a vice around Bilbo’s arm before he pushed him away roughly.

“No,” Bilbo said angrily, trying again, “Thorin, stop this–”

Thorin’s eyes burned with something – something hot and furious and then his hand was reaching for Bilbo, closing tightly around his neck, and Bilbo couldn’t breathe. Thorin tightened his grip and Bilbo’s vision was turning white, his lungs burning, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Thorin’s – they were glassy now, lifeless, devoid of anything; Bilbo could see his own terrified reflection in them. His hands scrabbled at his throat, attempting to loosen Thorin’s hold as he tried to claw in air–

“Please,” he choked out with the last of his breath, the word hissing out him – if he could he’d be screaming, his entire body on fire as he fought for air but Thorin’s grip was too tight and he could see black spots appearing in his vision–

He slumped as the world faded to darkness and the next thing he knew he was hitting the floor, air filling his lungs and whistling in his throat as he choked and gasped, gulping in great breaths.

Bilbo lay stunned, his limbs heavy as lead and fear turning his blood to ice. He couldn’t move, could only gasp as pain and despair washed over him and his neck throbbed dully with the imprint of Thorin’s fingers.

Thorin had chosen the Arkenstone over him; it had exerted its siren’s call and already Thorin was in thrall to it. He could feel his throat burning with fear and tears but his limbs were heavy with resignation.

Thorin had made his choice. He was gone. What else could he do?

He forced himself to his feet, only stubbornness keeping him from giving up entirely. How dare Sauron take Thorin from him? How dare he prey on Thorin’s fears and turn him mad? He had no weapons, but he couldn’t give up on Thorin. He just couldn’t.

He met Sauron’s smug gaze, fury coursing through him.

“You think you’ve won,” he said slowly, his voice rasping.

“I know so,” Sauron said.

“You think you’ve won just because you’ve sent an innocent man mad,” Bilbo spat. “You’re a fool just like your father was, _Annatar_.”

Sauron looked at him and the eyes behind the mask were blazing.

“You do not call me that,” he said, his voice violent and angry, but then he turned, calm again. “Your people have no chance against me, Master Baggins. Neither does his. They will all die, just as they killed my father. But I think I’ll enjoy watching the Stone kill him even more painfully than anything I could ever do to him.”

Bilbo could smell smoke, but he thought perhaps he was dreaming. There was no smoke. He looked over to Thorin, bowed over the Stone, his whole body quivering.

“He’s stronger than you know,” he said, praying to Yavanna that he’d be right. “He’ll wake up, you’ll see.”

Sauron turned to him and Bilbo didn’t need to see his smile to know it was there. “Wake up, Master Baggins? But he’s not sleeping. He is simply mad, just like his grandfather.”

“He is not his grandfather,” he whispered. He looked back at Thorin and paused – that was definitely smoke curling in under the door. Sauron had noticed it too and with a gesture sent one of his guards to check. The guard opened the door and a gust of acrid grey smoke billowed into the room, making him cough. They stood frozen in place.

Sauron let out an angry growl but before he could do anything three figures in white strode into the room and for a moment Bilbo could have cried with relief.

“It’s been a while, Annatar,” Gandalf said mildly.

“How did you get in here?” Sauron hissed, backing away from Gandalf. Behind him stood Elrond and a tall woman Bilbo supposed must be the Lady Galadriel. Both wore swords at their sides. He was so happy to see them he didn’t even question how they’d managed it.

“Bilbo, my lad, come here,” Gandalf said and Bilbo didn’t hesitate, dodging the outstretched hands of the guards behind him trying to catch him. Elrond handed him a knife and he clutched it tightly; when he looked over at Thorin, the man didn’t even seem to notice what was happening.

Before Bilbo knew what was happening there was a sudden crash and part of the wall exploded, the fire now licking its way through the gaping hole in the wall. The black drapes caught and the fire was spreading; Sauron watched it, though the mask hid whatever he might be feeling. The guards nearest the wall were screaming as the fire caught them; Bilbo couldn’t even feel pity for them.

“Very soon this room will be up in flames,” Gandalf said. “I’ve quite the knack for setting fires, and nothing here will escape it. But I’m offering you a chance,” he said, his words heavy. “Even you can redeem yourself, Annatar.”

“I won’t,” Sauron said, and his fear was palpable.

“As you wish,” Gandalf said with a shrug and another crash signalled another portion of wall falling in. The heat was increasing, making Bilbo’s left side prickle uncomfortably and he couldn’t stop his breath from coming quickly. Gandalf turned to him, ignoring Sauron as if he wasn’t even there. “Bilbo, take Thorin and go. We’ll deal with them.”

Another crash and more wall fell away, and now the flames were steadily eating up the room. Bilbo hesitated, still disbelieving that Gandalf was here. He saw a movement in the corner of his eye.

“Gandalf–” Without thinking he twisted around the Wizard and sunk his blade into Beregond’s stomach; a short jewelled knife fell from his hands as he pulled Bilbo down with him. “You’ve hurt me enough,” he bit out as Beregond’s blood poured out over his hands. “You will not take my friends too.” Beregond glared at him and Bilbo pulled the knife out, making Beregond jerk and a spurt of blood splash onto his clothes. He felt nothing as he watched his old friend’s eyes flutter closed and his blood pool on the crimson carpet.

He heard a cry from behind him and he turned to find a guard standing over Thorin, who was lying prone on the floor, a bloom of crimson quickly growing on his chest. Bilbo felt as if his world had stopped, his entire body cold despite the heat of the flames surrounding them.

He felt a hand on his back, pushing him towards where Thorin lay, unmoving.

“Bilbo, go,” Gandalf urged. “Do as your father taught you and get out of here.”

“But what about you?” Bilbo asked, his brain foggy. The world was tilting, everything was wrong, he couldn’t breathe.

“We’ll be fine,” Gandalf said and his voice sounded as if it came from very far away. He turned back to Sauron. “We have business to attend to.”

Bilbo stumbled forwards on numb legs, his hands fumbling as he knelt down to Thorin. Blood was pouring out of his side and he couldn’t see him breathing, couldn’t feel a pulse, but his hands felt like ice. He couldn’t leave him here.

Using what strength he had he heaved Thorin upright, the man’s body unyielding and heavy. The Arkenstone fell from his limp hands and Bilbo kicked at it through the tears that streamed down his face, which stung his eyes with the smoke.

They were near the balcony that looked out over the river and somehow Bilbo managed to get Thorin’s body out. He glanced back for a moment, looking for Gandalf, but all he could see was fire and thick black smoke.

He looked down at the water. He’d survived this once, but only by a miracle. He surely wouldn’t survive it this time. He almost didn’t want to, if Thorin was dead. He held Thorin’s body tighter and together they dived down towards the water, a pillar of smoke rising in the sky above them as they hurtled down towards the churning dark depths. The water rushed towards them at frightening speed and as it got closer he closed his eyes and tightened his grip on Thorin’s unresisting body; he straightened out and prayed to Yavanna that she’d make it quick.

He was still holding the bloodied knife in one hand and as a last resort he let it drop, falling away to break the surface of the river below.

He heard a low boom as the tower exploded and the next thing he knew was the crash as they hit the water.

It was icy cold but he could _feel_ it, he wasn’t dead – he could feel his muscles spasming at the cold, freezing up and stiffening and he forced himself to kick, to move. Thorin’s body was dragging him down but he refused to let go – he _couldn’t_ let him go – and with his last vestige of strength he propelled them towards the surface. The air hit him like a physical force and he breathed it in, every breath like knives in his throat. He kicked towards the bank, dragging Thorin with him, until they reached the sandy shore. He collapsed as soon as they were clear of the water, unable to stop his body trembling with cold or his teeth from chattering.

With shaking hands he felt for a pulse on Thorin’s prone form, listened for breathing; sobs tore out of him and he couldn’t stop them even as they ripped his throat as they escaped. His eyes stung and icy rivulets of water were running down his face and neck, he was chilled to the bone but none of it mattered because Thorin – Thorin–

“Don’t you dare,” he whispered, his hands desperately clutching at Thorin’s. “Don’t you fucking _dare_ , Thorin Oakenshield. You promised, you promised you wouldn’t–” He broke off in a choked gasp and pressed a kiss to Thorin’s cold lips. “You said we’d be together,” he sobbed. Thorin didn’t move, and Bilbo curled himself protectively around his still body. A pained noise left him as they lay there on the bank of the River Running, ash and snow falling silently around them.

 

_End of Part 3_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> o.o
> 
> *holds you*


	16. Epilogue: Snow After Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here we are, finally, finally, the final chapter!! Thank you all so much for sticking with me through til the end and for putting up with all the angst - I hope this chapter makes up for all the pain I've put you through so far <3

_**Part 4: Bloom** _

**Chapter XVI**

He could hear voices outside his door, gentle laughter pulling him from his sleep. He didn’t open his eyes immediately, instead simply breathing in and listening to all the sounds of life. There were birds outside, and the gentle hum of the city beyond. Somewhere, someone was playing a set of pipes and the thin reedy notes were just audible.

It had been a week since he’d first woken in this room in his sister’s establishment, her and Gandalf peering down at him in concern. Two weeks since Sauron had been defeated and the Sons free. Many times he’d dreamt of it but he’d never imagined spending his first two weeks of freedom either unconscious or completely bed-bound.

There was a knock at the door and he opened his eyes slowly, breathing in the lightly spiced smell of the air here. He called for whoever it was to enter and began to push himself upright to receive them.

Dís bustled in, a tray of food in her hands.

“Morning,” she grinned at him and Thorin made a noise in reply. She shut the door behind her and moved over to the bed, placing the tray on the side table and helping him up, adjusting the pillows at his back. She placed the tray on his lap and pulled up a chair, taking one of the two mugs of tea on the tray. “You look better this morning.”

“If by better you mean not feeling like I’ve been hit with a tonne of bricks repeatedly, then yes, I feel it,” he said drily, beginning to butter the toast she’d brought him. Dís only rolled her eyes and took a sip of her tea, watching him closely.

“He’s asked to see you again this morning,” she said quietly. Thorin paused and then continued scraping the butter onto his toast, though a little more vigorously than before.

“Tell him I’m sleeping.”

“How can you be so cruel to him, Thorin?” Dís asked, indignant. Thorin didn’t answer, didn’t look up from his plate. He spread jam over the butter, more than he wanted but he couldn’t bring himself to stop and meet his sister’s gaze. “He stayed by your side every moment you slept, waiting for you to wake up, and now you refuse to even see him?”

“What do you want me to say, Dís?” he asked sharply, setting his knife down with a clatter. “What can I say that will make it acceptable to you?”

“You can admit the truth,” she replied. “Admit to yourself why you won’t see him.”

Thorin tipped his head back, letting his eyes close as he took a breath. “I don’t need to admit it to myself, Dís. I know why I can’t see him. I betrayed him up there in the tower, I nearly killed him. I cannot bear to see him, knowing what I did.”

“If you just spoke to him–”

“No,” Thorin said. “Don’t make me, Dís, please.”

She let out an angry noise as she stood, setting her cup down roughly. “Fine,” she snapped. “But you’d better get your act together soon, Thorin, because I won’t lie to him forever. Next time he asks I won’t pretend you’re sleeping.” And she turned on her heel and left the room. Thorin stared at his plate of toast and felt incredibly small.

He couldn’t face seeing Bilbo again. He’d been there when he’d first woken woke up, his face tired and drawn but beaming as he’d noticed Thorin stirring before he’d run to fetch Dís and Gandalf; Thorin had been unable to look him in the eye when he’d returned, hiding his face. Bilbo had asked to see him every day since then and every day Thorin had told Dís to tell him he was asleep, or too weak to see him that day, or other such excuses. Because Thorin was a coward and Bilbo was a reminder of his weakness. How had Bilbo forgiven him for what he’d done to him?

So he hid in his chamber like the coward he was, putting off the moment he’d eventually have to see him. Bilbo was no fool and he must have realised Thorin was avoiding him – he allowed Gandalf in, and the other Sons had come to check on him since he’d woken. And still Bilbo didn’t give up, every day trying again. His wonderful Bilbo, waiting outside his chamber–

Thorin didn’t deserve him. He didn’t deserve someone as loyal and good as Bilbo, and yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to release him. If he saw him, he’d have to let him go, and Thorin couldn’t bear to do that just yet.  

In his meetings with Gandalf the kindly old man would sit and chat with him about what had happened – Gandalf had found Bilbo curled around him on the riverbank, snow grey with the ash of the burning tower settling around them and Thorin only hanging onto life by a thread; about what was happening in the city now – he was in the process of creating a new form of governance, fairer for all and not a Templar in sight. He told him how the others were doing, he recounted how he’d found Galadriel in her exile in Beleriand and how they and Elrond had managed to get into the Tower. He told him all this and never once did he mention Bilbo’s name, which Thorin was grateful for. He didn’t need to be reminded; Bilbo weighed heavy in his heart at all times. He couldn’t _not_ think about him when every beat of his heart reminded him of his guilt.

He finished his toast and shifted the tray from his lap to the side table, wincing a little as his side pinched at the movement. He lay back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling as the winter sunshine filtered in through the pink drapes and the fire crackled in the grate.

A week later he was on his feet again – but he still hadn’t had the courage to face Bilbo. He knew he was treating him badly but Thorin had already betrayed him – what did it matter if Bilbo hated him more than he must already?

He was still weak and tired easily, but when it wasn’t too cold he would sometimes stroll around the gardens of the Sapphire, bundled up in fur-lined cloaks that weren’t his Son’s robes. He’d lost them along with his hidden blade when he’d been taken by Sauron’s men, as well as his sword and throwing knives.

He didn’t know why he’d gone – part of him had known that it would almost certainly end in his death. Sauron had come for blood and blood was what he would get – but Thorin had hoped if he got Thorin’s, he’d consider vengeance done and leave the others alone. Thorin wasn’t sure if that would have been the case after all, but thankfully he didn’t ever have to find out. The others were safe and Sauron and Smaug were both gone. Just for now, there were no more blots on the horizon, no more Templars wanting their heads; Thorin thought he’d be forgiven for letting himself breathe a little easier for the moment.

Fíli and Kíli had coaxed him out from his chamber into the garden, a thick layer of snow lining the walkways, gilding the shrubbery. His breath formed a fog in the air before him and he couldn’t help the childish amusement that stirred in him at the sound of the snow crunching under his boots, the trails of mist as he breathed sharply through his nostrils.

“Uncle’s the dragon!” Kíli laughed and darted away, Fíli giving a heavy sigh even as she grinned. Thorin rolled his eyes at her.

“Don’t tell me you’re too old to play Dragons and Burglars,” he said, giving a mock frown and she laughed.

“Of course not,” she said and then the next thing he knew cold wet snow was scattered in his face and she was skipping away, screeching as he gave chase. He was out of breath too fast and it made his side ache a little, but the feeling of being outside – in the open air – and unafraid of who might see them meant the discomfort was minimal, paling in significance next to the feel of cold air in his lungs, fresh snow falling in his hair and catching on his eyelashes, the sound of his niece and nephew’s breathless laughter. This was all he’d ever wanted, to be free.

He laughed as he and Fíli managed to tackle Kíli to the ground, the snow cushioning their landing and spraying up into their faces.

“No!” Kíli was shouting, his cry devolving into laughter as Thorin tickled him and he tried to wriggle away, his cheeks pink with exertion. “Bilbo, save me!” Thorin froze, suddenly chilled. He immediately let go of Kíli and got to his feet, his cold hands numb. He looked around and saw Bilbo standing a few feet away, not meeting his eye. Kíli scrambled up, shaking the snow from his hair and completely oblivious to Thorin’s discomfort. “We were playing Dragons and Burglars,” he told Bilbo. “Do you want to join us?”

“Ah, no thank you, Kíli,” he said, his cheeks pink – and just the sound of his voice was enough to make Thorin’s heart pound. He stared at the ground, unable to look up and only just resisting the urge to shuffle his feet. “Don’t let me interrupt your game.”

“It’s okay,” Fíli said brightly. “Mother’s calling us anyway. Come on, Kee,” she said, grabbing her brother’s hand and before Thorin could say anything they were running inside. Thorin was fairly certain he hadn’t heard Dís at all; she was hard to miss, after all. He still couldn’t bring himself to look at Bilbo; if he did he’d lose all his remaining composure.

“You’re looking well,” Bilbo said hesitantly and Thorin nodded, still studying his boots. He didn’t say anything, too afraid his voice would break if he did. “I tried to come and see you, I don’t know if Dís told you,” he carried on; his tone was mild but Thorin’s face flamed.

“Yes, I was busy,” he said thickly. “Sleeping. Healing.” He patted his side as if that explained everything, glancing up at Bilbo. He was looking at him with an unreadable expression on his face, and when he caught Thorin’s eye he held it, not letting him look away. He took a step closer and Thorin’s breath quickened, escaping him in puffs of smoke in the wind. Longing was coursing through him, longing just to be near him again, to breathe him in, to feel those hands on his or cupping his face or carding through his hair.

But he had no right to long for such things. He’d proven himself unworthy of Bilbo Baggins and letting himself want would only make it harder.

“I’m glad you’re well,” Bilbo said, a small smile curving his mouth. Thorin wanted to kiss him, to hold him close and apologise for everything he’d done to him; but he didn’t.

“Bilbo,” he said, taking a breath. He had to do this; Bilbo deserved better than him, he deserved to go home and find someone worthy.

But before he could say anything Bilbo spoke first.

“I’m going back to the Shire,” he said in a rush and Thorin looked up, his words forgotten. Bilbo bit his lip and looked away, his hand coming up to rest against the tree trunk, tracing over the bark. “I’m going back for good.”

Thorin felt as if the breath had been stolen from his body. Despite the fact that was what he’d been about to tell Bilbo to do, it _hurt._ Bilbo looked at him, his eyes apologetic but chin set.

“I miss home and... and I’m not needed here anymore.”

Thorin felt his heart twist painfully.

“You’re needed,” he said, his voice nearly catching and he swallowed thickly. _I need you._

Bilbo looked at him sadly. “No, I’m not,” he said softly. He drew his hand back into his pocket and Thorin could feel his heartbeat thudding irregularly, painfully, in his chest. He had to let him go, despite whatever he wanted. He couldn’t keep Bilbo here when he knew Bilbo wanted to be at home; he couldn’t keep him here when he couldn’t bring himself to be near him. And yet in that moment a thousand excuses were running across Thorin’s mind, reasons Bilbo had to stay, a hundred thousand reasons why he needed him there. Thorin swallowed around the lump in his throat.

“Then if your mind is made up…”

“It is,” Bilbo said firmly, though his eyes were looking searchingly into Thorin’s, as if he was seeking the answer to some question there. “I leave tomorrow.”

 _Tomorrow._ So soon.

“Then I’m not one to stop you,” he said, giving a small smile. It felt like a knife through the heart to give it but Bilbo returned it, just a small curve of his lips but it was enough.

“Thorin…” Bilbo said, taking a step forward. Thorin forced himself not to move, not to reach out for him and pull him close like he so longed to do. Bilbo was so close to him now, a mere arm’s length away; he extended his arm out as if reaching for Thorin and then changed his mind, simply holding his hand out in the cold air. Thorin took it, his heart hammering at the feel of Bilbo’s warm hand in his own as Bilbo squeezed his hand, just a little, before letting go. “Thank you,” he said softly, his gaze not leaving Thorin’s, “for everything.”

And then he turned and was walking away, the snow crunching under his feet as Thorin watched his retreating back.

As soon as he was out of sight he hurried to his own room, unable to keep his breathing even when it felt as if his heart was breaking. It was a hundred times worse than before – Bilbo was _choosing_ to go, Bilbo was _choosing_ to leave him, and though Thorin knew he must it didn’t make it hurt any less. He clutched at his chest, at his side; it felt as if his whole body was falling apart.

Bilbo left the next day and Thorin didn’t join the others gathered at the gate to see him off – he watched from his window like the coward he was. He watched as Bilbo clambered into his saddle and turn to go. Beside him Gandalf nudged his pony into a trot; Bilbo looked back at the Sapphire, something unreadable on his face, and Thorin quickly stepped away from the window, his broken heart hammering painfully. Bilbo shook his head and followed Gandalf, his pony bearing him home, away from Thorin. He watched him go until he couldn’t see him anymore; it hurt to know that it was the last time he’d see him, to know that Bilbo wasn’t his. Perhaps that Bilbo didn’t love him anymore. For a long while after Bilbo had disappeared into the distance Thorin sat in his chamber and tried to work out how he was supposed to go on living when the man he loved had left and taken his heart with him.

 

***

 

Gandalf kept him company on the ride to Shire, which Bilbo was grateful for. His heart was heavy, despite the fact he was going home, and each step of his little pony weighed a tonne. He didn’t have much, just a spare set of robes in a satchel slung over his shoulder and his weapons all in their proper places. Balin had tried to get him to accept money, or at least a promise of money to come, but Bilbo refused. It was enough for him to know that the Sons were safe and free. He had no use for money.

He’d taken his leave of them that morning, already doubt creeping into his mind. Should he have stayed a little longer? Would they be alright if he left now? But he strengthened his resolve and said his goodbyes and left, Gandalf at his side. It was a far nicer journey than most he’d made – having company and not being a hunted man helped, he supposed.

Gandalf kept him distracted with conversation and Bilbo even found himself laughing despite the heaviness of his heart – but then, that was just part of the Wizard’s power. Sometimes it was just impossible to feel sad around him, and for that Bilbo was grateful. It stopped him thinking about _why_ reluctance made his feet drag, why he felt as if something was missing.

His heart lifted when he saw his home again, the grass blanketed with thick white snow, powdery to the touch, and the chimneys puffing out little plumes of smoke. He approached Bag End almost nervously – they thought him dead, what would they think when they saw him? – and clambered down from his pony, staring at the green door he’d dreamt of so many times. He took a deep breath and walked up the snowy path, and knocked. He felt odd knocking on his own front door.

It opened onto Lobelia, flour in her curls and wiping her hands on her an apron; she seemed to freeze when she saw him, her mouth falling open uncomprehendingly. Gandalf’s hand came up to rest on Bilbo’s shoulder in silent support.

“Hullo, Lobelia,” he said, his voice cracking a little. Her face crumpled and she threw her arms around him, holding him so tightly he couldn’t breathe.

“Oh, Yavanna, it’s really you,” she was saying, “it’s really really you, Bilbo, oh Valar–” She stepped back and released him, wiping her eyes and giving him a watery smile. “I can’t believe you’re back – Frodo’s been saying so all along but I never truly thought–” She laughed then, hugging him again and Bilbo held her close, letting the feeling of home warm his heart.

“Back for good,” he said as she let go and he brushed some of the flour out of her curls. She laughed and pulled him inside, urging Gandalf in too. They made their way to the kitchen, Lobelia calling Frodo excitedly. The lad peered around the corner curiously and fairly _flew_ at Bilbo when he recognised his uncle, chattering happily and excitedly as Bilbo held him tightly. Bilbo’s heart felt as if it might burst as he set Frodo down and accepted the tea Lobelia made, shrugging off his satchel and telling them everything.

The sun had set by the time he finished, cloaking the world in darkness early. He didn’t talk about Thorin – about his nightmares, his descent into the darkness his mind haunted him with; he told them only that Thorin had gone and nearly died, and left it at that. He sensed they weren’t satisfied with that but they accepted it for now.

Being back was everything he’d hoped it would be during the long cold nights when he’d missed it with a physical ache. He put Frodo to bed, laughing at the lad’s exuberance as he bounced up on down on the balls of his feet as they walked down the hallway to his bedroom.

“I always knew you’d be back,” Frodo said and Bilbo smiled.

“Did you now?” he asked. “And how’s that?”

“You promised,” Frodo said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. Bilbo pulled the covers back and Frodo climbed into bed, Bilbo tucking him in and sitting beside him on the bed. He smiled as Frodo peered up at him.

“It’s good to be back,” he said, smiling.

“Will you read to me?”

“Of course, my boy. Which one?” Bilbo didn’t even need to ask, his hands finding the old leather tome even before Frodo could say its name.

“Gwaihir and Roäc!” he said and Bilbo settled down to read, watching the boy’s eyelids droop as sleep claimed him. He pressed a kiss to Frodo’s forehead and the boy yawned.

“I’m not going to leave again,” Bilbo said. “I promise.”

Frodo yawned, only just awake.

“Won’t you miss Thorin?” he murmured, his words almost unintelligible they were so clouded with tiredness.

Bilbo felt a lump in his throat form and he couldn’t swallow it down. “No,” he whispered thickly. “I’ll be fine.” He turned down the lamp by Frodo’s bedside and headed for the door. He paused and looked back at Frodo’s now sleeping form and smiled. “Goodnight, lad,” he whispered and turned and left, shutting the door softly behind him.

He sat a while longer with Lobelia and eventually headed to his own bed. He shut the door and stood in the doorway, feeling slightly lost. He couldn’t stop the thought that once upon a time, Thorin had been here with him, had shared his bed - he looked away from the offending item, his cheeks flaming. He walked around his room as if in a trance, his hands trailing across the papered walls, the oak wardrobe, his mother’s old vanity. He looked at his reflection in the mirror; he was older, more tired than when he’d left. He turned away; funny to think that after longing for home for so long, he’d now give almost anything to be in a stone tunnel laughing at something Bofur said while Thorin’s hands rested gently but promisingly on his waist.

There was something folded on the chair in the corner; he strode across the room and picked it up. It was Thorin’s shirt of Durin blue that had become bloodied during his escape from the Erebor tunnels all those months ago; Lobelia must have washed it and left it here for him to give to Thorin.

Sudden longing coursed through him as he held the worn blue shirt and he missed Thorin so much it felt like his whole body was on fire, like he was being stabbed over and over and it was nothing compared to the pain in his heart. He sat down heavily in the chair, staring at the innocent garment in his hands.

Why had Thorin not asked him to stay? Why had he let him go, without even protesting? Why hadn’t he seen him even once?

Frustrated tears started to squeeze out from his eyes no matter how much he tried to stop them and he threw the shirt across the room; it landed somewhere on the other side of the bed, hidden from view.

A week, he’d stayed by Thorin’s side, not leaving even for meals or sleep; two weeks, he’d knocked every day and tried to see him only to be refused. At first Bilbo had believed that he really was sleeping or too weak to receive visitors, but he’d soon realised Thorin was purposefully avoiding him. And every day he’d kept asking, hoping this would be the day that Thorin stopped being stubborn and relented. But he hadn’t, and then it was clear: Thorin simply didn’t _want_ to see him. Bilbo couldn’t bear to stay a moment longer somewhere he wasn’t wanted.

He couldn’t have borne it, staying so near to Thorin and yet so far. What use was it knowing he was only a few thin walls away when that distance was as insurmountable as if it had been from Arda to the Evenstar Isles? If Thorin didn’t love him anymore, he couldn’t stay. Not when he still loved Thorin with every breath, with every heartbeat. There alone in his room, he felt very small and very alone and he took a few shaking breaths, trying to stop the tears that stung his eyes.

They’d never spoken of what might happen when it was all over. Bilbo had known he’d come home, back to the Shire, but there’d been a part of him which had secretly thought that perhaps Thorin would come with him – at least for a little while – or that Thorin would ask him to stay with him in Arda. He tried not to feel bitter at how it had all worked out: Thorin was a free man. Thorin was safe. The children, Dís, the rest of them – they could now live without fearing for their lives. That was what they’d set out to achieve and they’d succeeded; Bilbo couldn’t ruin that for them.

And if Thorin had decided he was better off without Bilbo, perhaps he was right.

Angrily Bilbo pushed himself up from the chair and changed for bed, thinking only of how nice his night clothes felt, of how soft his mattress was after the months of hard functional ones. It didn’t really stop the ache in his heart, but he could pretend it did, and Bilbo was really rather good at pretending, after all.

Just not to himself.

 

*

 

Time passed and Bilbo grew used to being at home again, to having little Frodo around. The lad had often stayed for weekends at a time but never much longer, and Bilbo stepped up to the job admirably. After all, he’d been absent for a long while, and he owed it to Frodo to make up for that.

At first being surrounded by his family and friends was enough to dull the sharp ache in his heart and Bilbo could forget all about Thorin for stretches of time, distracted by playing with Frodo in the snow and taking long walks, pointing out the winter plants and herbs. He salvaged Prim’s old herbalism compendium and he and Frodo spent hours poring over the pages, Frodo memorising each detail of the fine illustrations.

But as the winter snow began to thaw and spring approached it was harder to ignore the almost permanent ache of longing. It left him breathless at night and he could hardly move for it sometimes. He could no longer forget Thorin, the Son stealing his way into Bilbo’s dreams, his waking thoughts; sometimes Bilbo imagined he could feel his breath ghosting against his ear, or that he could hear Thorin’s low voice from another room and he’d turn, his stomach flipping with joy, until he realised he’d imagined it. The disappointment was crushing and stole his breath from his lungs.

Gandalf had gone back to Arda but would occasionally turn up at Bag End, asking for Bilbo’s input or advice. Along with Galadriel and Elrond, Gandalf was setting up the new council to rule over the city. He wanted representatives from each district, so that the entire city could be represented fairly and not just the rich.

“Come with me to the next meeting,” Gandalf urged him. “It’s about time the Children got into politics – maybe you could turn your hand to governing life, as well as nurturing and taking it.” His blue eyes twinkled under his bushy eyebrows and Bilbo smiled and agreed to join him. Not because he was interested in politics, but he wanted to see his friends. Bard, Beorn, Thranduil… he hadn’t seen them in a long while.

And so he found himself in Arda, accompanying Gandalf through the streets. Since Gandalf had rather conveniently blown up the Lonely Tower, it had been razed to the ground. It was strange not seeing it up there in the Citadel, watching over the city.

They made their way to the market hall in Rivendell, filled with people all having their say in the running of the city. It was humble and down-to-earth – hardly the fancy elite the Council had been before. Bilbo was surprised and commented on it to Gandalf.

“Everything’s changing, Bilbo my boy,” he said clapping Bilbo on the back. “We’d best not get left behind.”

Bilbo made a noise of agreement and followed Gandalf towards the long table where the meeting would take place. He was about to sit down when he heard someone calling his name and he started, looking around curiously.

“Bilbo! Bilbo!” he turned to find Ori hurrying up to him, a beam splitting his face and parchment clutched to his chest. He no longer wore his Sons’ robes, and instead was in a smart jacket and breeches. Bilbo couldn’t help but smile as he saw Ori approaching, still looking harried and bedraggled even in his new clothes.

“Ori,” he grinned, pulling the younger Son in for a hug before holding him at arm’s length, studying him carefully. There was a new braid in his hair; Ori noticed his gaze fall on it and his smile grew wider as he touched a hand to it almost shyly.

“Dwalin and I are courting,” he admitted and Bilbo was truly happy for him. He ignored the longing for Thorin that woke in him then, coiling itself through his body. Ori waved someone over and then Balin was there, pressing his forehead to Bilbo’s and asking how he was. It was almost like Bilbo had never left, despite the time that had passed. They told him their news – Bofur had reopened his toy shop in Erebor with Bifur, Óin and Glóin were making money and Dori had taken up his tailoring again; Bilbo told them about Frodo and life in the Shire. It all sounded dreadfully dull compared to what the Sons were up to.

“How’s...How’s Thorin?” he asked hesitantly then, ignoring the way his heart beat faster. “And Dís and the children, of course, how are they getting on?”

Balin smiled. “They’re doing just fine, Bilbo. Freedom suits them well, as it does us all. And Thorin’s alright too.”

“Alright?” he frowned.

“He’s at a loss as to what to do now the Sons aren’t really Assassins,” Balin said. “Dís has the Sapphire, we have our writing, the others have their businesses...All Thorin ever lived for was freedom, and now he has it he doesn’t know what to do with himself.”

“Oh.”

“And he still blames himself over the Arkenstone,” Ori said quietly. “He told me what happened up in the Tower.”

Bilbo swallowed and looked away for a moment. “The only person who hasn’t forgiven him is himself,” he said quietly.

“Then why have you never come back to see us?” Ori demanded, suddenly fierce. Bilbo looked at him, startled at the sudden vehemence of his tone. “We all thought that was why you left – that you hadn’t forgiven him or that he’d hurt you too badly. Why did you go?”

“I – I left because I wasn’t wanted,” Bilbo said, a pained expression on his face. “Thorin refused to see me and I decided I needed to get home. Frodo needed me more than any of you.”

“It’s not true,” Ori said, shaking his head, but after a sharp glance from Balin he shook his head and strode away, his gloved hands worrying at a quill. Bilbo watched him go, ignoring the tightness in his throat.

“Come and see us soon,” was all Balin said, squeezing Bilbo’s arm gently, and then he too was off, guiding Ori to the other side of the room ready to transcribe the meeting. Bilbo sat numbly through it, not really paying attention, and even when he was back in the Shire he couldn’t place why he felt so uneasy.

Seeing Ori and Balin had just reminded him how much he missed the Sons and of course how much he missed Thorin – though he couldn’t ever truly forget that. Lobelia became frustrated with him, losing her patience with his pacing and his long silences.

“It’s been two _months_ ,” she told him crossly as he stared out of the parlour window, gazing out at the Shire coming back to life. The trees were starting to bud again, shoots breaking up through the still-frozen earth. “Just go to him, Bilbo. He’s probably hurting as much as you are. Yavanna’s sake, you have to stop this moping or you’ll drive yourself mad.”

He flinched. “I can’t, Lobelia. You don’t understand. He doesn’t want me there – he didn’t even _try_ to stop me.” He could feel his breath coming short and he forced himself to breathe slowly, turning back to the window. “It doesn’t matter what I want, if he’s made his choice.”

“Bilbo,” she said softly. “At least talk to him.”

Bilbo shook his head and left the room. She didn’t understand – _couldn’t_ ever understand. Bilbo couldn’t see Thorin again; seeing him would only make it harder. It was hard enough already; if he saw him again, his want and love would only come crashing down even stronger and Bilbo couldn’t face that.

So he carried on ignoring his own feelings and buried them as deeply as he could, distracting himself with his walks with Frodo and visiting his relatives and all the other pointless, boring things that were his life now there was no one to hide from or fight.

He couldn’t stop himself thinking of Thorin, but he was determined not to let it get him down. Yes, he loved Thorin and he was sure he always would; but Thorin had made his choice and so Bilbo had to make his: let himself fade away, bitter and resentful, or let the past be the past and remember it for what it was? He deserved more than to let Thorin make him no more than a side-note, discarded and forgotten about. He owed it to himself.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but he knew he was right. It was easier after this: there were still moments of crushing despair and longing but for the most part Bilbo succeeded. He even found it in him to visit Bofur’s toy shop, buying a couple of figurines for Frodo that thanks to Bifur’s clever fingers could actually move: he gazed at the woodsman in his hand in wonder, his axe swinging up and down, up and down, like clockwork. He couldn’t bring himself to go to the Sapphire.

Like clockwork: like a well-oiled machine, smooth but repetitive. Those were Bilbo’s days now. It was only at the quiet of night when he was alone, sitting with a cup of tea staring out at the night sky, that he let himself think on what had been before. It was only then that he let himself be anything other than in control.

He just hoped that it was worth it; that whatever Thorin was doing, he was happy.

 

***

 

He hadn’t thought letting go would hurt so much. Every time he tried to forget Bilbo, to convince himself he was doing the right thing, it felt like he was cutting off a limb and he caved, clinging selfishly onto his love for him. And yet every time he told himself to go back and _get_ him, to beg for his forgiveness, his courage failed him. It was a torment harder to bear than he’d ever thought possible; what surprised Thorin was how he still functioned, despite the ever-present ache in his chest and longing in his body.

Dís yelled at him, pleaded with him, scolded him; but nothing she said could force him to action. He was too cowardly – too craven to let Bilbo go, too craven to get him back.

“Mahal’s sake, Thorin, he’s as stubborn as you,” she cried, finding him sitting alone in the gardens of the Sapphire again. “Just go to him and see what he says!”

“I can’t,” he said numbly. Couldn’t she understand that?

“I swear to the Maker, Thorin,” she muttered. “You don’t even like plants and yet you sit out here day after day, and I know you’re thinking about him.” His cheeks coloured at that; he did find the gardens soothing – with the sound of the leaves in the wind and the smell of the earth he could almost pretend he was in the Shire, and that Bilbo would come out at any moment and sit next to him as if nothing had changed at all. Except it had, and it was his fault. “Brother or not, if you don’t stop moping I’m kicking you out,” she muttered.

He scowled at her. “You wouldn’t.”

She gave him a smile that was slightly too wide to be reassuring. “When you’re done moping, go watch Fíli do the budgets. You’re useless at them.”

Thorin didn’t reply to that. The others had all moved on with their lives and Thorin had become his sister’s handyman, doing whatever she required to help with the running of the Sapphire. He didn’t begrudge her that, but he did resent his own inability to move on. Especially when Dwalin and Ori had started officially courting and Dwalin had almost been too embarrassed to tell him.

“I let him leave,” Thorin told him, his friend looking almost comically uncomfortable. “He is an ally to us, he saved us, and yes I loved him. But what I feel or felt is not important. He has his own life now.” He wished he could sound so certain when he told himself this night after night.

Spring came quickly, perhaps welcoming the new Arda that was blooming under the new council. The whole world seemed to be coming back to life, this time better than before; it seemed it was only Thorin who was stagnating, not really living despite his new-found freedom to do so.

One particularly sunny spring day Dís sent him out of the Sapphire to go and meet Balin after his meeting. Reluctantly Thorin did as he was bid, and he headed to Balin’s new office in Dale, where he was part of a committee for something or other. Thorin _had_ been listening, but politics went straight over his head. He was reluctant to go inside on a day like this so he waited in the small square outside. A tree offered shade and Thorin studied the flowers that had been planted around the base. Bilbo would know all their names.

He paced as he waited, ignoring the trickles of humanity that passed by his little square. He scuffed the grass with his boots, wondering what was taking Balin so long.

He wasn’t sure how long he waited for but eventually he grew too bored and decided to head inside; he strode towards the door and just as he was about to pull it open it swung out, narrowly missing hitting him in the face, and someone hurried out before walking straight into him.

“So sorry!” they cried and Thorin froze at the sound of Bilbo’s voice, frowning as he regarded him and _yes_ , that was Bilbo, standing right in front of him! Bilbo had frozen too, looking at Thorin nervously. “Oh,” he said, his face falling and Thorin tried not to let his disappointment show. “Hullo.”

“Hello,” Thorin said, swallowing thickly and hoping his voice wouldn’t give him away. He hadn’t seen Bilbo in _months_ and suddenly he was here, just a few small steps away, and Thorin could feel his chest tightening as he took in the sight him – his curls were neatly brushed and shorter than when they’d parted, his cheeks were fuller. He was perfect, and Thorin felt a moment of utter despair before he pulled himself together. “You’re here to see Balin?”

“Oh, yes,” Bilbo said, nodding and looking away as he brushed down his robes. He still wore his Children’s robes, his scarlet belt and herb pouch ever present. “Yes, sometimes I come and visit Balin and Ori.”

“Oh,” Thorin said. They hadn’t mentioned his visits. Why had Bilbo never come and visit _him?_ Bilbo said nothing to this and they stood in silence for a few long uncomfortable moments. There was so much Thorin wanted to say – he’d been a fool, an utter fool, and please would Bilbo forgive him–

“You, ah, you look well,” he settled for saying. Bilbo gave a quick smile, just a curve of his mouth, and Thorin’s heart quickened at the sight. “Being at home suits you.”

“Yes,” Bilbo agreed. “Yes, the Shire is good after so long away.”

Thorin nodded, his whole body aching to close the gap between them, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “How’s Frodo?” he asked hesitantly. Every second of this shambles of a conversation hurt him more but every second was another second he was talking to Bilbo, looking at him, in his presence, and he couldn’t let that go despite the indescribable, exquisite pain.

Bilbo gave a proper smile then, his whole face lighting up. “He’s doing just fine,” he said. He was picking at the sleeve of his robes, an unconscious gesture Thorin had seen him do on countless occasions before while sitting in the common room in Erebor and he couldn’t breathe for longing. “And Fíli and Kíli? How are they?”

“Good,” Thorin replied, nodding. “Really good. They miss you.” _I miss you._

Bilbo’s face fell for a moment and he looked away. “I’m sorry I haven’t been to visit yet. Tell them – tell them I’ll be over some time soon.” He couldn’t meet Thorin’s eye. They both knew he was lying.

“Of course,” Thorin replied easily, feeling like his heart might stop. Mahal, this hurt more than he’d ever thought possible.

“Well then,” Bilbo said, looking up again and rocking on his heels. “I’d best go.”

“Yes,” Thorin replied, nodding again – he felt like one of Bofur’s mechanical toys, his head bobbing up and down again and again as if it were the only thing he could do. His whole body was crying out at him to stop Bilbo from going, to keep him here – how could he let him go? He could hear his sister’s voice in his head – _talk to him –_ but he _had_ talked to him and all it had done was remind him how much he loved Bilbo Baggins, and show him that Bilbo didn’t love him. Bilbo wanted to get as far away from him as possible, and Thorin couldn’t blame him – no matter how much it broke his heart. He wondered if he’d found someone else in the Shire.

“Goodbye, then,” Bilbo said.

Thorin swallowed against the lump in his throat. “Goodbye.”

Bilbo nodded once more and then stepped past Thorin, who let him pass; he couldn’t bring himself to move, whether it be to turn and watch him walk away or head forwards into Balin’s office. His whole body was frozen, screaming at him to do something–

He whirled around. “Wait,” he said desperately, the word forcing itself out of his mouth. He saw Bilbo flinch and immediately he hated himself, but Bilbo still turned, his shoulders raised defensively. Thorin felt a bitter taste in his mouth – was he afraid of him? When he’d raised his hand to him up there in the tower, had that killed Bilbo’s trust in him?

“Yes?” Bilbo asked. Thorin hunched in on himself.

“I... it was good to see you,” Thorin said lamely, his courage failing him. Bilbo’s eyes tightened and he simply nodded.

“Oh.” He paused. “You too.” He didn’t turn around immediately; he looked hesitant, as if he wanted to say something, or was waiting for Thorin to say it.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin said then. Bilbo’s eyes were fixed on him and Thorin couldn’t look away, his entire being focussed on Bilbo and trying to make him understand – that he _was_ sorry, but that that wasn’t what he was trying to say – that there was so much more he needed to say – “I’m sorry I never saw you, at the Sapphire, after...everything.”

Bilbo swallowed. “It’s forgiven,” he said gently, his voice sincere.

Thorin frowned. “No, I was wrong to do that. I’m sorry.”

Bilbo gave the ghost of a smile. “You don’t have to feel guilty, Thorin. For anything.” And he turned again but Thorin couldn’t bear it – he _couldn’t_ let him go – not without knowing for sure that Bilbo didn’t love him anymore. He darted forwards, his hand catching at Bilbo’s elbow and Bilbo span around, eyes wide.

“I miss you,” Thorin said, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. Now the words were out and there was no taking them back. “I’ve missed you every day since you left and I cannot let you go again without being certain – without knowing it’s truly what you want.” He let his hand drop from Bilbo’s arm and he looked down, unable to look at Bilbo’s face which was suddenly full of anguish.

“Then why did you let me go?” he asked quietly, and there was such pain in his voice it froze Thorin to his core. “All you had to do was ask me to stay and I would have, I’d have given it all up in a heartbeat for you, Thorin–” He turned from him, gulping in great breaths and Thorin stood frozen, trying to comprehend Bilbo’s words. “I still would,” Bilbo whispered miserably.

“But – I thought you wanted to go,” Thorin said. The world felt unsteady, as if it were shifting under his feet. “I thought you’d made up your mind and that nothing I could say could stop you – If I’d known–”

“I thought you didn’t want me around anymore,” Bilbo said, suddenly angry. “You refused to see me and I had to go, I couldn’t bear to stay because you didn’t want me there anymore–”

“I was _scared_ of seeing you again,” Thorin said, his heart thudding so painfully he couldn’t breathe. “I thought I’d destroyed whatever we might have had–”

Bilbo turned then and there was fury in his eyes. “You are such a _fool,_ Thorin Oakenshield!” he cried, jabbing Thorin in the chest. “A massive, stupid, stubborn _fool!_ I stayed by your side all while you slept and you thought – you thought I’d suddenly stopped loving you? Was that not proof enough that I love you with every fibre of my being and that not a _day_ goes by where I cannot stop thinking about you? You thought that what happened would suddenly _change_ all of that?” He was shouting now and Thorin let him, blood rushing loudly in his ears. “You are so _stupid,_ Thorin,” he said, breathing hard, and turned again, hiding his face. His breathing was sharp and they stood there for a long moment, neither saying anything, until Bilbo broke the silence. “I’m going to go now. I’ve made enough of a fool of myself,” he said, his voice stiff and face still turned away. Thorin caught his hand and Bilbo’s breath hitched. “Please don’t,” he whispered. “I can’t bear it.”

“You call _me_ a fool and yet you thought I’d stopped loving you, because I didn’t see you?” Thorin asked, near to tears himself. “Yes, I’m a fool, Bilbo Baggins, but I can’t help myself because I don’t think I can bear to watch you walk away again, not this time,” he said, his voice breaking. He closed his eyes. “Please, don’t make me watch you leave again.”

Bilbo made no reply and Thorin might have thought he’d walked away if his hand hadn’t still been clutching at Bilbo’s. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Just as Thorin was about to let his hand fall, he felt warmth on his cheek and he leaned into it; Bilbo’s other hand came up to brush away the strands of hair falling into his face, smoothing away the frown on his forehead as he’d done so many times before. Thorin didn’t dare open his eyes, just in case this was a dream or some cruel joke.

“Alright,” Bilbo breathed, his breath ghosting over Thorin’s lips. “Alright.”

 

***

Summer was definitely on its way, Bilbo decided; it may only be April but already the sun was beating down on his back, sweat beading on his forehead as he worked. He was elbow deep in freshly turned earth, planting bulbs and carefully patting the earth back over them, ready for them to blossom. Come summer, his garden would once again be the envy of the Shire.

He stood then, admiring his handiwork and wiping a gloved hand across his face. He grimaced when he remembered it was muddy – not that it mattered, as he’d need to wash when he finished anyway. He was looking out at the rest of the garden thoughtfully when arms suddenly snaked around his middle and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Thorin,” he laughed, twisting in the other man’s arms. Thorin was smiling down at him, looking at him with such devotion it made Bilbo warm all over. “We weren’t expecting you for another couple of days!”

Thorin’s grin widened as he removed a hand from Bilbo’s waist – a shame, Bilbo thought – to rub the mud from Bilbo’s cheek with his thumb. “Balin managed to hurry everything up,” he said, “and Dís can be very reasonable when she wants to be.”

Bilbo wrapped his own arms around Thorin, resting his head on his chest and listening to his heartbeat. He was glad he wasn’t the only one whose heart was beating erratically: just being near Thorin even now still made him feel giddy. “I’m glad,” he said and Thorin hummed in agreement; Bilbo could feel it vibrate in his chest.

He pulled away reluctantly, keeping hold of Thorin’s hand as he led him inside to the kitchen, where he removed his muddied gloves and washed his face before turning back to Thorin. Thorin had been spending a few days a week in the Shire with Bilbo and Frodo ever since they’d reconciled – and to think it had taken them that long – but he’d had to go back to Arda to sort things out: namely the old Durin manor. Dís had suggested selling it, but Thorin wanted it gone – it was naught but a shell, after all; there were too many ghosts in there and it was better they were laid to rest for good than be allowed to linger – no amount of polishing and dusting could ever wipe clean the history of the blood spilt there.

“Where are Lobelia and Frodo?” Thorin asked.

“Out with Otho,” Bilbo said, pouring them both a glass of water. “I think he’s got his eye on her, and taking Frodo out for his herbalism lessons is his excuse to see her.” Thorin gave a chuckle and Bilbo couldn’t stop himself smiling at the sound.

“Herbalism,” Thorin said. “That’s what you people call it, is it?” His eyes crinkled at Bilbo’s indignant look.

“Thank you very much, but you _chose_ this herbalist,” Bilbo said, mock-haughtily and crossing his arms. “So I’ll thank you not to insult my people, Master Oakenshield.”

Thorin paused for a moment, looking stunned, and then he laughed – a proper, full-bellied laugh. Bilbo couldn’t work out why he was laughing and he stood, waiting for an explanation.

“You said nearly the very same thing to me exactly a year ago,” Thorin said, by way of explanation, his hand coming up to tweak one of Bilbo’s curls. “Though I’ll admit the circumstances were a little different.”

“Today?” Bilbo asked. A year ago today he’d first met Thorin… It almost seemed impossible that the haughty, arrogant man he’d hated almost immediately and the man in front of him, grinning widely, could be the same person. He swallowed thickly. It was strange to think how much had changed. He leant forward to press a kiss to Thorin’s collarbone.

They heard voices approaching up the front garden path and reluctantly Thorin took a step away as the smial door opened and Frodo came running inside, followed by Lobelia and Otho at a more sedate pace.

“Uncle Bilbo, Uncle Bilbo!” Frodo was calling, but as soon as he entered the kitchen and saw Thorin he forgot what he was going to say and immediately ran to him with an enthusiastic cry of “Uncle Thorin!”

Bilbo didn’t have a moment with Thorin to himself for the rest of the day – not that he really minded, the smial ringing with voices making him feel content. It wasn’t until Frodo was in bed asleep that they could excuse themselves, leaving Lobelia and Otho in the living room, and as soon as the door shut behind them Thorin was peppering him with kisses, making Bilbo laugh.

“I missed you,” Thorin said, pausing with his face pressed against the crook of Bilbo’s neck.

“You were only gone a couple of days,” Bilbo said, his hands coming up to tuck Thorin’s hair behind his ears. Thorin had put his braids in again at Bilbo’s insistence – he was a free man, after all, and he’d done what he’d set out to do. He lay back against the pillows, Thorin lying next to him, their hands entwined as they looked at each other.

“I want to talk to you about that,” Thorin said quietly. Bilbo felt his heart jump to his throat. Thorin noticed his reaction and pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s knuckles. “I’ve spoken to Dís. Turns out I was a terrible doorman and she’s kicking me out. I’m homeless, Bilbo.” His eyes were smiling and Bilbo let out a breathy laugh, relief washing over him. Thorin kissed him then, leaving him breathless, and when they broke apart he didn’t pull away.

“Well what use have _I_ got for a terrible doorman?” Bilbo teased, his free hand stroking Thorin’s cheek gently. Thorin reached up to catch it as he moved to whisper in Bilbo’s ear.

“I’m quite good at washing dishes,” he said, completely seriously, and Bilbo laughed before kissing him soundly.

“Welcome to the family,” he breathed.

 

_FIN_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 <3 <3 FINALLY THE HAPPY ENDING I PROMISED :')
> 
> again, thank you so so much for every click, kudos and comment - i appreciate it all so very much :) and I also have a kinda fluffy one shot almost ready to post - fluff is definitely more my thing... 
> 
> Also, for those of you who _are_ interested in Assassin's Creed, just today I published my first fic in that fandom too, so if you're interested check it out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10997187/chapters/24495591#main). :)
> 
> Much love!

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaaaaaaaand we're off! I hope this has piqued your interest... Updates will be weekly! I'd love to know what you thought of it so far :P


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